wong

"There are two ways to dehumanize someone: by dismissing them, and by idolizing them."

Thank you, David Wong, whomever you are, for that quote! I agree! You are not wrong, wong. Wrong Wong? More like Right Wong! But actually more like David Wong, because that is your name. Why did your mother name you David? Was it because of the bible? Or an ancestor? Or did it just sound nice? Are you a nice man, Mr. Wong? Would I dismiss you or idolize you if I were to meet you? Do you eat meat? If so, come over for Thanksgiving at my house. If not, come over for Thanksgiving at my house. Our home will have both carnivore and herbivore options, David. So please. Join. Give thanks with friends. (Note: We have yet to become friends, Wong, but I have a good feeling about you. A really good, solid, hearty feeling about you. I bet your mother named you David because her husband told her to. Do you know your mother's husband? Assuming they were married. Maybe they were never married, maybe she used a sperm donor, maybe she conceived immaculately. That's ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Are miracles inherently ridiculous? Am I a miracle, David? I'm going to go out on a ledge and say that we are both miracles. Probably.

This post was not meant to be this. But this is what this is. It never existed before I typed it, so how was it "supposed" to be anything other than what it is? I may be sloppy in my thinking, but it's always sloppy before the storm, you know? The storm of insights. Just stay with me. Stay with me and keep reading and respond and then get upset at your response (or my lack of response to your response) and then slam your computer or your flip phone or your phone book (who were you going to call? were you ordering takeout?) and throw whatever object you just slammed across the room to the wall with the red mark on it. No, the red mark isn't paint or blood or unintentional ketchup stains. No, the red mark is from the shoe you threw at the wall last week when you were mad at something you've now forgotten. You buried your head in a bath towel after to muffle your scream. You scared yourself, you strained your voice. You had no choice but to try to remove the shoe stain on the wall. It wasn't your wall, that's why. It was David's wall and you don't want to make a bad first impression on Mr. Wong when he returns home. "Why the red mark?" Wong inquires. "Why the long face, Wong?" you mumble. It wouldn't be a good way to start off your friendship with David Wong. It would just be confusing.

But sometimes confusing is okay.

Okay?

gem

Recovery is difficult. Each moment is a reminder that you have no idea what you are doing. I am not entirely sure how I keep moving forward, but I do, even though most days feel like a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of day. And if I am doing my math correctly, that is still a forward motion with just a little bit of frustration sprinkled on top. All of this being said, here are some things that bring me joy and comfort. This is a list to remind me of all the happy things when waves of doubt threaten to drown me. Swim! Swim! Breaststroke! Butterfly! Flotation device!

REI (yep! started this list off with a store!)
vegan cooking (because I refuse to debone anything)
meditation (as hard as it is to sit still for even 60 seconds)
long, directionless walks (as long as I don't have to pee)
heart-to-hearts with a sweetheart
tea
early mornings (when they are quiet and spent slowly waking up)
being outside, no matter the weather
art, especially outsider art and art done by children
jam bands (there! I admitted it!)
gardens and greenhouses and soil and succulents
dancing like a complete maniac (just ask my mom)
running (as long as I run for the "right" reasons and not to punish myself)
used bookstores
weird small towns
dogs. oh dogs. all the dogs.
and cats
and animals
even snakes
but not if they are in my sleeping bag
sleeping bags
camping and hiking and backpacking and being
minerals and rocks and gems
gem backwards is meg
isn't that sweet?

Love you. Love me. Well, I'm learning to love me. I'm excited about this new romance.

product

Saturday! Saturday Saturday Saturday is supposed to start off a bit lazy, sure, but then it's supposed to be one of those productive days where all of those boxes on your to do list get filled with little satisfied check marks. Buy your almond milk and egg replacer at the grocery store! Fill up your gas tank (while promising to save up for a hybrid)! Walk the dog/pretend dog you've created for yourself since your landlord doesn't allow pets! Clean out the garage! Mow the snow! Wack the weeds! Alphabetize and organize and prioritize and maybe even philosophize on the importance of productivity in modern society or whatever whatever whatever you don't really know what you are saying, but you are saying it and it means that you are doing something and doing something means that you exist and you are worth taking up space on this rotating rock in space. In short, Saturdays are meant to be spent not sitting in front of a screen eating an entire Tupperware of tofu scramble and tub of hummus. I had grand plans for today, people, but I fell short. Way short. And I ended up with a stomachache and no more hummus. Buuuut...

But it's okay. It really is. It's so okay that I am even grateful for the chance I had to have the laziest Saturday possible. It took a long, frozen walk around the park/tree museum for me to feel this gratitude, however. I began to understand (and admit to myself) that I deserve to be patient with myself during this transition. It's a transition from the lengthy days of summer into the quickening darkness of winter. It's a transition from the world of cuckoo pills into the world of a sober, stark, and relatively sane Meg. It's a transition from starvation into fullness. None of these transitions are a piece of vegan cake. And it is worth reminding myself of this over and over and over again. It is worth reminding myself to be gentle with myself because my Self is worth it. (My Self is also an illusion, but I'll get into that in another post.)

So what if I wasn't "productive" today? Maybe I should examine my definition of productivity and ask myself if it makes sense. Maybe I should also realize that HEY! Winter is a time to rest, to hibernate, to stay inside and read and write and drink the best Egyptian licorice tea ever created. Maybe I should sink into what's here right now and feel the relief that comes with letting go of expectations, to do lists, check marks, and all of the other busyness in which I tend to drown. We all deserve to take up space for the simple face that we are. We exist and we are okay as is.

grad

I wore my flower Doc Martens and oversized sweater because I wanted to feel COOL. I wanted to feel cool, but casual. I wanted to feel cool, but casual because I was going back to college. Not, like, in a "Hello! Back to get another degree that will be remarkably useless!" way, but in a "Hello! I am here to hear a lecture. Not just hear it, but see it and learn from it!" way. Wow. That last sentence deserves so many red marks. But you aren't a copy editor and neither am I. I was, though, at one point. When I was in college. College. I went back to college last night.

And it was hard.

I spent almost a decade at that school (yes, it took me EIGHT years to get a bachelor's), graduated by surprise (which meant I didn't really have the chance to say goodbye), and haven't been back in four and a half years (holy crap). Anyone would have felt a bit out-of-sorts returning, right? I didn't prepare myself, either. I was attempting to be SPONTANEOUS and FLEXIBLE and SOCIAL and just kinda went to the lecture. I decided that I was going to get out and expand my mind -- and also see if I could handle not going to the gym for one night. Exercise addiction is a real thing, people. Plus, I was (am) genuinely interested in the lecture subject -- marriage equality. Equal rights for all! Even dolphins! Oh, so now you can marry a dolphin? What about a carrot, you plant-loving-NPR-tote-bag-wearing-mountain-hiking-recycling-do-gooder-hippie? So yeah, the lecture was good. I wish I would have paid more attention to it, though. I was too lost in the thoughts of the past. Too lost in the regrets of paths I didn't take, people I abandoned, all of the many many many things I never tried (study abroad! internships! grad school! late-night pizza binges!), and so on. And on and on and on until I was too drained emotionally that I shut off and smiled vacantly at the people I passed in the hall on my way out of the student center.

So I guess that was a failure.

Then again, it was also a giant success. I gave something a try. I knew that my main purpose in attending the lecture was to get out of my house, to break my strict schedule, to try something new, to step beyond the barrier of my own mind. And I suppose I didn't mind the uncomfortable feelings and memories that came along with my return to campus. I mean, not really. For brief moments I was able to view my experience as an opportunity to practice acceptance, loving-kindness, and gratitude. Yes, gratitude. Gratitude for the opportunity I had to learn as much as I did. Gratitude for the difficulties I faced each semester, such as figuring out how to deal with classes and clinical depression at the same time. It forced me to grow, become stronger, and eventually develop genuine empathy for others in similar positions. There is also the gratitude for the mountains of life-changing literature I consumed, poetry and absurdist one-act plays I wrote and shared, incredible and incredibly complex humans I met and loved and with whom I disagreed. And then there was the occasional pizza, the long nights spent writing and researching and philosophizing in streets and on roofs. The deconstructions as well as the constructions. The sacrifices and the eventual resurrections. And did I mention the pizza? There can't be college without pizza. It might even be a fact, but I am skeptical because I also learned to question everything while in college. And that is probably the thing for which I am most grateful.

That was my night. I returned home in my heavy Docs and baggy sweater with a head full of gooey memories and soupy confusion. I walked around the block in the bitter cold of the night to detox my brain a bit. It sort of worked. Walks and nature will always help in clearing whatever has become muddled. Still, I have a slight nostalgia and remorse hangover today. I will work with it. I will let it sit while I examine. I will accept and give thanks. I will ask questions and be okay with never hearing an answer. And maybe someday soon I will order an entire pizza for myself and enjoy it tremendously.

miracle

Einstein had it right, you know? Doug Einstein. I kid, I kid. I'm speaking of Albert. And I'm specifically thinking of his quote, "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." (Note: I did a quick Google search for this quote and stumbled upon a lot of different versions of it, some of them turning it into something vastly different from the "this should be embroidered on a pillow" sweetness of the one we know so well. Interesting? Yes. But I shall not discuss the validity of the quote above or dissect what Einstein may or may not have meant. Just so you know. We'll leave all of that stuff up to Doug Einstein.)

But back to the quote. Or, if I were Queen Oprah, the "aha" quote. It's an aha quote because it gave me that aha moment and it also gave me a free car and a cup of chai tea. Once I realized I can pretty much choose how I view any given situation or event, I felt released from the prison of my conceptual mind. Put THAT in your Harpo Studios pipe and smoke it. Am I making sense? I'm probably not shedding new light on anything, but who cares. I could be writing a report on why hamsters are better pets than turtles, which is what the 5th graders are doing right now. Isn't that a dumb report? Like, screw that! Turtles are just as cool as hamsters, if not wildly cooler. Gimme a break, 5th grade.

So I am approaching life in this new way -- as a turtle. Okay, I kid, I kid yet again, yet again. I am waking up in the morning and making an effort to smile and vocally say, "Yeah!" Yeah yeah yeah, OMG how cheesy. But cheese can be good, especially if it lifts you out of a severe depression. Give me all the self-affirmations in the world, people! Give me all of the smiley face stickers and gold stars. And pats on the back and hip hip hoorays and three cheers for me. I'll take it all and see what happens. Throw it all in the pot.

Speaking of pot, should I work on a pot farm?

Speaking of farms, I will most likely work on an organic farm this spring/summer. I can't wait to harvest vegetables or animals or wine or whatever and then gather around a bonfire and play hacky sack with a guy named Zack or a join in on a drum circle with a group of dudes named Zack. Hopefully both!

Speaking of Zack, did you know that Einstein's real first name was Zack? Yeah, it's true. Zack Albert Douglas Einstein.

I am off to make some tofu scramble pantsless! Pantless or pantsless? I plan on listening to reggae music, mon, and shouting "yeah!" And I will smile and I will add way too much turmeric and I will be okay with it and I will feast.

point

My head is clearing, my heart is opening, my entire world seems fresh and almost Dr. Seuss-like. What happened? Giving up prescription amphetamines helped immensely, yes. Yes yes yes. It was a domino effect, really. Stop taking crazy pills, start eating, eating makes the brain work, the brain working means I am less paranoid and isolated and more at ease and warm to other humans. And animals. I love animals again instead of thinking that they are all assholes. JK, I never thought animals were assholes, even while strung out on stimulants. Okay, maybe I thought certain yippy dogs and cats who shed too much were assholes, but that's only because I was the asshole, you know? Like, an asshole who was super great at alphabetizing and not blinking. So at least I had that.

But that's pretty much all I had. I didn't have time to sit in a hammock and, well, just sit. I didn't have time to listen to music and well, just listen. I didn't have time to paint, to watch, to appreciate, to pause, to think about anyone or anything beyond myself and what would serve me. All in all, it was the best of times for about 15 minutes and it was the worst of times for the rest of the minutes.

Then why did I continue to pop the pills? Two major reasons: addiction and appetite suppressant. My brain became addicted to the chemicals and my brain became addicted to the way in which it prevented me from eating. Finally! Finally I didn't obsess over food and what I would or would not eat at my next meal. Finally I could forget all about food even being an issue because, frankly, I almost forgot food existed. Finally I felt as though I had some control. And maybe that's what my eating disorder has provided for me over all of these many hungry years -- a sense of control. Yes, it is a false sense of control because yes, it ends up controlling (and killing) me. But up to a point I did maintain some control. It was empowering, up to a point. It was exhilarating, up to a point. It was euphoric, up to a point. Then you get to that point, to that top of the highest peak where the rocks are unsteady and the wind is fierce and the oxygen is thin. And you are thin. And you can't hold on for long when the winds pick up, so you shake and shiver and start to slide. It's a long way down. There is no net and because of this you know it can't end well. It never does, it never will.

Something inside of me clicked on while I stood teetering at the edge about to fall off. Something woke up and I looked around and I realized the severity of the situation. And I saw a raven gliding past the orange sunset silently. And I could smell the sage in the air that felt like a knife. And all of it cut me open until I knew how to do nothing but cry. Cry and climb. I climbed down from the point because I no longer wanted to fall. I held on to the rocks, blessing them for assisting me and supporting me. Funny, I thought, they had been there this whole time. They were rocks after all. They had been there waiting to help, to guide me to stable land and a stable life. Rock by rock, moment by moment, I found my way to the bottom.

But it wasn't the bottom in the sense that it was a pit. Oh no. It was a beginning, a place where I could look up and see the sky instead of looking down and seeing how I would die. I am not sure why I am speaking of it in the past tense. It is my present. I am still at the beginning and unsure of how to use my feet. I'll figure it out. I have rocks and ravens and sunsets and sage to guide me. I have food and family and friends and forgiveness. I have a desire to move, another chance, and eternity right now. I am ready, I am here.

joy

I'm still chewing on ice cubes, which makes me think I still have anemia, which is to be expected, but I am on the up-and-up. Did you enjoy my comma usage in that last sentence? You did? Why did you enjoy it? Frankly, that is a pretty bizarre thing in which to find enjoyment. What other super stupid things do you enjoy? Asking questions on blogs? Chewing on ice? Fog? Pearls?

I tend to have a rough time starting blog posts, don't I? MEGHAN. Stop asking questions! I mean, Meghan, dear sweet handsome amazing beautiful talented worthy-of-love Meghan, I feel as though you could stand to cut back on asking so many questions in your writing. The reader does not wish to be in the position of answerer of questions. Answerererer. Then again, do you really know what the reader wants? Do you even know what you want? Did you realize you just asked two more questions? Make that three. Three? Now it's four. Forget about it.

Hey, everyone! Third paragraph! And now I'll start being more direct. I am happier. Not just happy, but joyful. Happiness is fleeting and a lot of the time contingent on the superficial. Joy, on the other hand, is more of a steady undercurrent. It is a way of being that can still exist even when shit hits the fan. I am still struggling, but I feel this heavy, heavy fog starting to lift. Maybe that is hope? Maybe I hit a place so dark and lifeless that I was left with no other choice but to look back up at the sun. I mean, not directly into the sun because of the whole retinal damage thing. Anyway, I see brightness and I am beginning to thaw out. I feel brightness, in other words. I see, feel, taste, touch, and smell brightness. And it smells like patchouli oil. I am flying my freak flag, folks.

How do I continue on this much brighter path? Stay away from stimulants. Keep meditating, no matter how booooooring it gets. Yoga? I guess? Eating. Forgiveness. Therapy. Definitely therapy. And asking for help, knowing my limits, finding my voice. And did I mention avocados? Avocados will probably get me through a lot. Music, art, trees, sweetheart 5th graders who actually want to be around me, heart-to-hearts, service.

I can continue. And, for the first time in a long time, I want to continue.

(un)fog

It's me! The mayor of San Francisco! Go out and vote today, citizens! Go ride a cable car! Go to the wharf and comically fall into the water after comically chasing a seagull (who comically took a crap on your comically large head). Go go go listen to Ginsberg howl at City Lights and definitely go listen to Jesse rip with the Rippers down at the Smash Club. Then you have the Giants and the Golden Gate and the Ghirardelli. You have the soccer games on Saturdays and the brunch with babes in cool shades who order on the rocks while seals by the harbor lounge on rocks. You have the townhomes and the out-of-towners with no home, but they find a home on the streets that go straight up into the fog that doesn't lift for what seems like an eternity until suddenly it does and then it seems like it never existed. Make it to the top of Haight-Ashbury and share a joint with the British boys dressed impeccably well. Their sunglasses and slicked back hair and I-don't-care attitude contrast beautifully with the woman over there who may or may not be on acid, standing on a crate creating visions out of the patches of clouds. There are patterns, there are gates opening to gardens, there are rocks in memorial parks that read "Norman was here" and maybe he was. Maybe he howled and lifted his own fog before settling down underneath this cypress tree. Norman continues on even when he stops. We don't stop, though, because we still have to get lost. The shops are steaming and the scents wake up your stomach. Your eyes wake up, too, if you want them to. And now your brain has been retrained, it has been set free from its own Alcatraz, it washes up on a shore and is snatched up by a kid with a collection. We end up in corners, we end up in pockets, we end up in palms. We end up beginning to give up whatever blocks out the sun, a constant purging of the mind-poison so to speak. So speak up. Stand up on your crate or your cable car or the tips of the branches of your cypress tree and find your voice, your path, your baptism in your howl.