I was 6 years old when the first Star Wars movie came out. 6. I have watched Carrie Fisher all my life. 40 years.
At the time, I didn’t know what was so incredible about her or what was going on in the world. As I grew up, other things invaded my consciousness and it wasn’t until later in life did I realize her incredible gifts beyond Star Wars. Laughter. Creativity. Honesty. She was more than an actress. She was more than the gold bikini. She was a voice for those battling internal demons. She was a voice for those who suffer from pain and mental illness. She was a mother. A daughter. A writer. A friend.
And yes, she was and is and always will be Princess Leia.
Her death shocks so many of us and for so many different reasons. I am still processing mine.
She taught us to laugh.
She taught us to give.
She taught us that being real and authentic is better and happier business than tongue biting and political correctness.
She taught us to live life fearlessly, and if we are scared, to live it anyway.
She taught us to love.
She taught us to grow old and embrace it, because there is no alternative.
She taught us to face our weaknesses as well as our strengths, perhaps more so.
She taught us that we do still matter, even if we are addicts, or depressed, or bipolar, or manic.
She taught us we don’t have to sell out for success.
She taught us that we can come back from anything.
She taught us to live unapologetic lives, to live without shame, to live with boldness.
She will be missed by millions, by generations of women and girls who aspire to be seen as more than our gender tells us we can. She will be missed by those who are struggling still to find their own voice amid the noise in their head. She will be missed. Her wit. Her uncompromising wisdom. Her flipped birds. Her dislike of double standards. Her truth.
She was so much more than Princess Leia, but she is a Princess nonetheless. She is also a Warrior who fought for so much. Maybe we can learn one more lesson from her…
“I don’t want my life to imitate art, I want my life to be art.”
Rest in peace, Carrie Fisher. Thank you for the force you became in all our lives.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these catch up and evaluate posts.
The 2016 Nascar season came and went and I barely said a word about it.
The 2016 College Football Season came and went and I didn’t say anything about it, either. There are still bowl games and playoffs and the championship to go, so who knows, I might give a rundown of the games.
The point is, I’ve been relatively quiet about things I love, about passion, about writing, about anything and everything.
It’s 14 days until Christmas and I have yet to put up a tree, add lights outside, or bake ANYTHING! Y’all know when I’m not baking that something isn’t right.
I’ve been battling severe depression for about 7 months now. I usually come out of it at the end of summer as I’ve discussed before. This year, that didn’t happen. It hasn’t gotten worse, but it certainly hasn’t gotten better. However, my hermit status is NOT in jeopardy. I’m trying to manage it on my own. I talk to friends, I take walks, I listen to music, I sleep. So far, nothing has really helped me get up the hill.
The spouse started working from home full time in September.
One thing as a hermit and a depressed person and an introvert and as well, me… is alone time. Is time I don’t have to think about anyone else. That went out the window when he started working from home. He no longer has a desk or space at the office, so going back is not going to happen. We’re still working things out, or trying, and the adjustment has been one that I’m not making as well as he is and I’m not sure how it’s going to work out in the long run.
I haven’t been reading. Nothing catches my eye. Nothing captures my attention. I get to page 5 or 10 and put it down. This has happened with historical romance, contemporary, paranormal, dark, bdsm, m/m… whatever the genre, I’m not finding anything to hold me or interest me in the slightest.
And finally, my writing… I have been working. I have been revising books and finishing some that I’d started. I’ll have a release uploading tomorrow and one that I’ll upload the week of Christmas. I’ll have more information on that second release soon. I have a full plate of new books, revised books, and I need to finish that books for 2017. I have all my books back from Ellora’s Cave and I have had them taken down from most places. Google Books is being a pain in the ass still and EC isn’t bothering to help.
I don’t have the re-release schedule figured out yet, but I’m working on it.
Every year, the last five years or so, I start out thinking that year will be different. So far, that hasn’t been the case. Every year either stagnates further, or gets a little harder.
I’m looking at 2017 as either a breakthrough year, or the one that reaffirms that it’s time for me to do something else.
I don’t know if I should be saying brace yourselves for impact, or grab the nearest bottle of the hard stuff and just sit back and watch it all burn to hell.
Kinda catchy, yeah? The title of this post, I mean. So, let’s get down and dirty…
My ass is a size 22. A size 24 sometimes, depending on, oh let’s see… my stress level, my hormones, my state of happy or sad, my depression, my job (how many hours I’ve sat in a chair and for how many days), my diet, and my genetic pool. Some of these things stay level (genetic pool) and some (all the rest) of them fluctuate by the hour. And they all affect the size of my ass.
All this size crap? Sucks. That little chart in the Dr’s office? That sucks, too. A doctor telling you that you need to eat better, quit smoking, stop drinking, etc…? That really sucks when you find them eating junk, smoking like a chimney, and drinking more every night than you have in your entire life. Do as I say and all that shit.
And right now, I’m eating a piece of cheesecake. And I LIKE IT! It’s so good and rich and it’s all mine. I will not share it with you. Okay, maybe I would, but only if you promised not to feel guilty about eating it…
On the heels of the announcement of the size 16 model on the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition in which we are celebrating body diversity, I learn that my daughter is being asked to write a ‘practice’ paper on obesity in children, teens, and adults. This isn’t something earth shattering, because as a society, we have been focusing on obesity for a long time. We charge out the ass for a bottle of water, but give away chemicals (soda) for next to nothing. We charge out the ass for a bag of salad, or a pint of blackberries, but give away a sugar laden candy bar for next to nothing. We talk about getting out and exercising, but we work all the time and don’t lead the example. We have become the rule, not the exception. But I can’t throw stones because honest to God, I hate exercise. I do. I hate sweating. I hate the treadmill. I refuse to join a gym. I refuse to take an aerobics or spin class. I tried several times. I hate it. (I do like yoga, though.)
Over the last year, my daughter has gone from a size 1 and an extra small, to a size I don’t know because she won’t tell me and a medium. She looks beautiful. She looks healthy now as opposed to the gaunt, sunken, unhappy young woman I had previously known. But she looks at the stretch marks and hates how she looks. She’s seeing ONE part of her and hating it and it colors how she sees the rest of herself. And society needs to fucking stop that shit.
You, me, my daughter, anyone, everyone is NOT their skin, are NOT their scars, are NOT the size of their ass. But we make it, we make ALL OF IT about the physical. We don’t give a damn about the kind of asshole person they are, because as long as they look right, it’s all okay, who they are inside doesn’t matter.
When I see my daughter hating something about herself that she has no control over, and no she has no control over the stretch marks that appeared when she was confined to a couch for 4-6 weeks after she broke her ankle last year… Shit fucking happens. I gained weight too when I crushed my ankle right after my son was born. It never healed right because you know, newborn and couldn’t stay off my feet for the weeks I was told to stay off my feet, and I’m in pain with it all the time.
I was told one time by someone very dear that some guys were/are into bigger women and love bigger women and well, he just wasn’t one of those guys… That’s one of those heartbreaking moments in life. That’s one of those life altering moments in life depending on who says those words. And just like everything else in life, it’s how you deal with those words that matters. And I can tell you I didn’t handle those words very well. They broke my heart and sent me down into a deep, dark hole that I’ve only started climbing out of in the last 3 years.
I’ve hated myself and my body for YEARS. For more than 20 years I’ve hated myself and my body. From words my husband and my doctors and my family and my friends and society has spoken to me I’ve hated, HATED myself and my body for over 20 years.
And not hating myself hasn’t come from diets, though I’ve tried them and lost weight. It hasn’t come from exercise, though I’ve tried that, too, and gained weight. It hasn’t come from my spouse, my doctors, my family, my friends, and most definitely not society, because yeah… It’s had to come from me, from INSIDE me.
Do you get that? INSIDE! Not outside. No, cause the outside is cruel and mean and completely heartless at times. But it has had to come from INSIDE.
Many are not that strong. I haven’t been. Not until recently. And no one ever really takes into account that happiness can cause one’s ass to spread too, but it can also cause it so get smaller.
Something I’ve learned is that we have to own our shit. I told my daughter that today. No matter what it is, we have to own it. Own that you ate an entire chocolate cake and loved it. Own that you’re addicted to coffee. Own that you suck at marketing (I know I do and that’s another post altogether.). Own that you hate all the popular stuff. Own your kinks and perversions. Own that you are unhappy or hurting. Own that you’re happy and not hurting. Own your shit. Whatever your shit is, own it, embrace it as yours, accept it as yours. Only then can you begin dealing with it. Only then will the stretch marks become part of you, and not a part that you hate that in turn makes you hate other parts until you’re hating everything you are.
I saw a post on Tumblr recently where a woman added text to an image of herself and it said she was glorifying obesity. She was poking fun at the comments people made about obesity. And some of the comments were just fucking mean. But there were the absurd ones too. One of them from a man was that he bet she cried herself to sleep at night because of her size and that she should think of all the things she couldn’t do that an average weight woman could and that probably made her sad. The woman in the pictures was anything but sad. And as I’m reading these comments and looking at the woman and reading more of the comments from men and women all I could think was, Fuck You.
Society has declared it okay for you to wish my ass were smaller because of how uncomfortable it makes everyone around me. But it hasn’t declared it okay for me to shout Fuck You because of how much of an asshole you are that you can’t see more than that. I don’t have to tell you my ass is big. You see it. But you definitely feel the need to point it out.
We teach girls to hate themselves. We teach the beautiful people that it’s okay to be bitches and assholes because they have what we obese people really want and that’s to look like them, all pretty and perfect on the outside. We teach boys that it’s okay to look at woman and tell her that he bets she cries herself to sleep at night because she can’t do the things a skinny woman can do.
We’re all as different on the outside as we are on the inside. We’re all beautiful and we’re all ugly. We all throw stones. We all break the glass houses that we live in. We all hate ourselves and there are a few of us who love ourselves more.
But we need and much as I hate that word need, we NEED to stop wishing to be different and own our shit. Own the shit storms and the stretch marks and the fact that we have to buy a size bigger. Own that we are mean and cruel and a reflection. Own that we can love and smile and accept and embrace. That’s the only way we are ever going to move forward.
I read book with plus size characters where the heroines are obnoxious about their larger sizes. That’s just as bad as not being accepted at all. Embracing yourself doesn’t mean you have to shove it in another person’s face and scream look at me. You don’t have be an asshole about it. Believe me, people see it and they’re already uncomfortable. Don’t push them away because you had to shout it to the world.
The size of my ass or your ass is no one’s business. As long as the inside is healthy, none of that other crap matters. You want to lose weight? Great. You want to diet? Great. You want to embrace your size, whatever it is? Great. But whatever you do, and when I say you, I mean the collective YOU, not anyone specific… Own your shit. You’re beauty, inside and out. Strengthen your soul, your mind, your heart. Those are the things that matter most. Not stretch marks. Not the size 24 jeans. Not the orgasmic moan you let out when you bit into that piece of cheesecake. But whether or not you were an asshole. That’s what someone is going to remember. And that’s what they should remember…
I posted this video last week and it’s still relevant to this particular topic.
We need to stop hating ourselves and stop hating our differences. For ourselves and for our children…
This is what I’ve been doing all week. I’m up at Four In The Morning. I’m actually up before four, but by four I’m usually writing and well into a cup of coffee. The second cup comes in at about six, but four is when I’ve been pretty much hitting my stride.
I’ve had to make some time management decisions lately and let me tell you, it sucks. I like early mornings/late nights, or maybe it’s late nights/early mornings. Hell, I’m so tired I don’t know anymore. But, in order to get anything done and done the way I need it done, and that’s the key right there, ya know… the way I NEED it done, I had to make a few changes. One was that I go to bed a little earlier and get up no later than three in the morning.
When I writing more, I was doing so in the middle of the night. The house is asleep. No one can bother me and I can’t make a whole hell of a lot of noise cleaning or cooking or do the laundry. I could put in my earbuds, turn on the music, and write for several hours. There were a few people on Twitter and we would converse every so often, but set a timer, some tunes, and I was good to go until around five or six…
Then public school dreams for my son crept into his brain and shot all that to shit. With that, I was getting up at five-thirty, to bed at ten, homework until nine, and empty nest syndrome that left me with so many hours on my hands, I didn’t know what to do. I tried for weeks, months to write during the day, I mean, I had all these empty hours, right? It should be easy to get things done, but… Nope. I would stare at the screen, walk around, stare at the screen some more, walk around… I wasn’t getting words in and I wasn’t walking off the pounds. It was miserable.
I got the idea to try this getting up at two and three from another author. She does it when she’s on deadline and I can tell you I’m on two so… But then, deadlines are when I do my best work. These books should’ve been done long ago, but that’s a story for another day.
Suffice it to say, I’ve gotten more writing done in the last four days than I have in the last month. I know where the stories are going and know that they’ll be done in time for publication. Sometimes I have to be pushed to my limits in order to find a solution. Sometimes I have to have no other options before I’ll find something that might actually work. Either way, while I’m still exhausted, some changes have been made the household schedule that’s allowing me the chance to try out this insane way of working. I get up, write for a while, get my son up, the spouse gets up, I get food, throw in a load of laundry, get more coffee, make the bed, say bye to them, work a little more, and around eight am I crash for a couple of hours. I do housework, walk, shower, work, get dinner started, get my son from school, nap again cause I’m beat, homework, family, a few oh shit moments when I realize I forgot to do something, and then, bed to do it all over again. I don’t know how sustainable it is, but we’re about to find out… I’ll keep you posted…
On behalf of those who’ve ever suffered from it at all…
On behalf of those who’ve been left behind, grieving…
…with a spoon. “It’s dull, you twit. It’ll hurt more…” Alan Rickman as the Sheriff of Nottingham from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
On January 29th… In just a 13 days, it’ll have been 9 years since my grandfather passed away from a 9 year battle with cancer. He was the very best man I knew.
And if it continues to take the very best of us… What does that say for those of us it leaves alone?
But that’s just it. It doesn’t leave us alone. We’re all touched by it. We’re all pulled down into the fight, in one way or another, because we’ve all known someone, somewhere who’s lost their life to it. We see it more. It’s in our face more. And just this week, with David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and Grizzly Adams… Millions around the world were touched and affected by it. Felt the loss of those who’d been on our movie screens, in our ears, on our television sets for more years than we could count. It wasn’t just a woman who watched a man, in his bedroom, take his last breath, surrounded by other women who, too, loved him best and most.
I miss him daily, sometimes hourly. He was a good man. Strong and capable. He didn’t deserve that way to go. He didn’t deserve the pain and suffering. And it’s personal. Cancer made it personal for many years, but most especially that morning, just after 7am, on his 60th wedding anniversary. Cancer made it personal by taking him.
Cancer makes it personal…It takes away our brightest, our most beautiful, our most amazing… And to that, I say… Again…