The Pros and Cons of My Own Intensity

there is

a price to pay

for being me

there is

a price to pay

for being

in my Life

I am intense

always

have

been

when I

Feel

it is

at either extreme

everything matters

I am awed

by the perfection of

a blue day

a flawless lyric

that moment when I realize I have been

understood

recognized

I am broken

by the slight of

an unintended word

a sunless day

the moment when I think I will never be

truly

known

I am hard

I have been told

am told

if I love you

it will be

absolute

my adoration

is not forced

not display

not spurred by too much wine

or loud music

it is

sincerity

transparency

from a high or a low

the tension is nearly the same

euphoria or despair

my breath traps itself

lodged

inside my chest

that tightness

an inconsequential instant

something you might walk past

may stop me

rock me

and it may surprise me

your lack of urgency

just don't scoff at my excess

I do not

know how

to

contain

myself

What did you learn in 2013?

One of my favorite bloggers recently asked me that question. Well, she didn't really ask me...she asked everyone who follows her blog, but of course, I take everything personally.

I almost didn't answer.

A few years ago, I decided to try to not take the new year hoopla so seriously. I used to journal and reflect on the passing year every December 31, and then plan my entire new year: resolutions, grand changes and plans. I put this inordinate amount of pressure on myself to come up with some really poignant, life-changing stuff. It really was exhausting, and most of the time, it felt completely contrived.

So I decided I would sorta ignore all the hype. I would not make any grand resolutions. The year that had passed was simply another year, just like the one that was coming. I forced myself to approach January first as just the day that came after December 31. Admittedly, at the beginning that was tough. Sorta like when you have an itch you're not able to scratch (say, on the arch of your right foot, and you're wearing socks and boots, and you're driving), and you have to white-knuckle it until the moment passes. That's sorta what it was like. I was worried a Very Important Day was here and I was ignoring it.

But after a couple of years, it started to feel very freeing: no self-inflicted pressure, no overly dramatic ponderings.

So when Lindsey Mead posed that question at the end of her New Year's post, I almost ignored it: "Oh, I don't do that stuff anymore. And really, I don't think I learned anything different or significant in 2013." If you'd been here, you probably would have seen me shrugging, dismissively, as I sat at my kitchen counter in my pajamas, drinking my coffee.

But then I took one second to think about it, and it took no longer than that to realize that 2013 probably ended up being One Of Those Really Transforming Years in my life. I highly doubt most people--even those who are close to me--notice the difference, but there has been a shift in me over the last year.

They say that who you are as a person at 20 years old is certainly not who you are at 35. (Public Service Announcement: Having realized this to be absolutely true, I am a firm believer that if you are going to get a tattoo, you should wait until you're at least in your very, very late 20's. I currently have 7 tattoos, and thankfully, none is a Winnie the Pooh, which is what I was absolutely positive I wanted when I was 23.) I remember when I was going through my twenties, which was a decade filled with the best and worst decisions of my life, tons of therapy, and really growing up and becoming who I was meant to be, my wisest, dearest friend (who happens to be 30 years older than I) would tell me this repeatedly. "You won't change that much from 40 to 50, Liz, but there will be a stark difference between who you were at 25 and who you will be at 36." But now here I am at 41, and I feel some major changes inside myself from just a couple of years ago. These changes, in part, came from the first really big serious life stuff I experienced: my sister's cancer, some financial issues, major friendship break-ups, and watching my children go through the seismic shift from babies to boys.

I don't feel like the same person I was a year or so ago.

It was towards the end of 2012 when I dug through a book I had read months prior, searching for a particular quote from a biography, needing it, finding comfort in it, without knowing at the time how desperately I would turn to it again and again over the coming year and a half:

"There's no real point in mourning all the sadness and suffering in the world....So this is my therapy, to sing about the end of the world and dance. We don't find solutions in despair--we find solutions in the defiance of it....Everybody needs a little horn section."  ~Dave Matthews

I had always been one of those people that if anything was "pending" I couldn't be fully happy. It was a futile battle, since those of us who have grown up realize that there is always something pending:  bills, schoolwork, a messy house, medical tests, dirty dishes, a necessary but difficult conversation, sick family members, a torturous work project...  I found myself waiting for things to be Perfect. Of course, they never are. Whether it's really serious scary shit (like my sister's cancer battle last year) or stupid stressful shit (like a never ending laundry pile), there's always something "bad" to be upset about. I always used to think that I wasn't really supposed to be fully content and joyful unless everything that was pending had been "taken care of."

But then that quote--a quote I had read months prior to actually needing it--did something to me. It made sense. It was one of those a-ha! light bulb moments that is very personal and, really, only the person experiencing it can truly understand its depth and importance. I couldn't solve any problem--big or small, real or imagined--by feeling despair. But I could defy that despair. I could sing and dance, literally and figuratively. I could say "Fuck you" to the problem, to the fear, to the suffering. And then, no matter what, I had won. I had taken that moment in my life and lived it. Really lived it. With horns blaring.

I put that quote up at work by my desk. I put it up on my mirror in my closet where I get dressed everyday. For a while, it was even the wallpaper on my phone. Throughout 2013, when I wanted to huddle up and hide under the covers...when I felt the fear and anxiety and despair seeping in and threatening to take over...I reread it, and it got me through.

My perspective has changed over the last year. I am quieter inside. The infamous noise inside my head doesn't drown everything else out (usually). I stress less. I put more importance on the things that need my attention. I have less time and patience for bullshit--not just others', but my own as well. Somehow, my sister's cancer diagnosis, my little babies no longer being babies, and entering my forties have all combined to make me less fearful of life, but acutely aware of its passing and its opportunities. I want to dance and sing and travel and laugh and explore and grow and love more every day, because I've come to realize that it is my responsibility to do so: I have been given this life...just one chance to get it right...and I want to live it as true to my own desires as possible.
Happy New Year.

A case for disconnecting

My husband rarely checks his phone. He is harassed often by his friends, his mother, and occasionally his wife about how long it takes to get a hold of him. Those of us who know him well know that it is not personal or purposeful. And those who know us well, know that if you need to get a hold of him right away, text or call me. Because my husband is rarely looking at his phone, while I, on the other hand, have been slowly becoming that person who rarely does not.

Back in 2009 when I first started this blog, I wrote a post bashing Facebook (and pretty much mocking the people who use it constantly). Now, I refer to FB as my rabbit hole: I open it up to post something or peruse, and I fall in...

I text. Constantly.

If my phone is on the kitchen counter and I walk past it, I will pick it up and check it even if it hasn't rung or beeped or vibrated or dinged, "just in case."

I used to get really, really, really pissed at my friends who had their phones out during dinners or when they came over to visit. Once (possibly more than once), I snatched it away from my girlfriend, hissing about how insulting it was...was my company not enough? Last month, I went away for my annual girls' getaway, and this time it was one of my girls hissing at me (albeit more gently, because, well, let's be honest, I have a reputation for being harsh): "Put. That. Away."

So a couple of weeks ago, when Hubby and I went to Disney World with the kids for four days, I declared a moratorium on all things connected. No Facebook. No texting. No "just checking" either. (Okay, disclaimer: I did post ONE picture on Facebook, but it was with Hubby's blessing and it was too good to pass up...Here it is:)

"Mr. Miyagi would be proud..."

I admit that there were a few moments I wanted to capture and text immediately to a friend with a clever comment, and there were more than a  few times I wanted to post something for the world to see, but for the most part, it was easy. There was something incredibly freeing about clicking off my phone and dropping it in the backpack...never fumbling around and checking my pockets frantically to find it...never missing a moment or a conversation because I was reading a text message. I remember the trip much more clearly, because I was actually present for all of it; I wasn't multitasking or trying to maintain ten conversation threads at once.

And I know what would have happened had I not made that promise to myself and my family at the beginning of the trip: I would have had my phone out in every line, while walking from ride to ride, while sitting on the resort bus.... And I would have been able to rationalize it by saying that I was "only doing it" when nothing else was going on. As a result, I would have missed out on all the conversations and all the comfortable silences, the spontaneous jokes and hugs, the parenting and family time, the snuggling up against my Hubby's shoulder in exhaustion while waiting in line, the great people watching that can only be seen in a place where that many people from that many places congregate.

Something else would have happened too: I've realized I get overstimulated. You know, like when you're a new mom and you're reading the baby books, and they tell you that for some babies, too much stimulation can make them overwhelmed and cranky and unbearable. Well, over the last few months, I've been working a great deal on all that "noise" I talk (and write) about that's always in my head, making me exhausted and stressed out all the time. I've realized that a lot of that comes from the external stimulation I inflict upon myself: not only the phone and the computer, but also the attempts at multitasking, the endless To-Do lists, the self-imposed demands and unrealistic expectations to keep up with it all. So I would have been just one more cranky, annoying, crying baby waiting in line for the Dumbo ride.

I came back from that trip pretty oblivious to what was going on in my social media groups and the blogs I follow. I felt disconnected enough that I neglected (purposefully and consciously) this space for a while, too. I didn't sit on the couch with the laptop open. If I absolutely needed to look something up, I used my phone so I wouldn't linger too long. When I posted something on FB, I tried to resist my Alice in Wonderland incarnation. On Christmas Day, I avoided the internet completely. Although I have to admit that some stress has come from all this (What if my followers stop reading my blog? What if I lose my niche in the little author groups I've joined? What if someone is waiting on me for a response to something?), for the most part, it's been calming. I have had more time to talk to my children. I have had more time to interact with my husband. When I've been with friends, I've been fully present. It's the same old thing we keep reading about and discussing out there regarding the society we live in and all its hyper connectedness: as amazing as it all is, to a great degree, we are missing out on the people who stand before us and the experiences we are literally having in an attempt to post, text, and "connect." 

All I Want For Christmas...is to stop

My birthday is next week. Christmas: a mere 14 days away.

And all I want most is to slow down a little bit.

Enjoy myself.

Stop with the to-do lists and pending items and general busy-ness.

The tree has been up for nearly 2 weeks now, and I have barely enjoyed it.

I have forced myself to listen to Christmas music twice.

The second time, I turned it off in a huff because it was just adding noise in my already-noisy house and I couldn't hear the shouts of: "Mommyyyyy....how do you spell 'Grandmaaaaa'?"  "Mommmmmmyyy...how do you spell 'been'?l"

 

I don't even do that much: my kids are not currently in sports. There are few afterschool activities. I have a small social circle, and thank God, no more medical obligations with family members.

I don't do that much.

I just do Life.

 

Life with 2 small boys.

Life as a teacher whose job feels more stressful and less pure everyday.

Life as a wife of a husband who I barely spend Quality Time with Monday-Friday, in spite of the fact that we work together.

Life as a woman who likes things "just so" and puts an awful lot of demands on herself on how things "should be."

 

I can't seem to keep up with the crumpled up list of pending Christmas Responsibilities that's mocking me from the bottom of my ridiculously messy purse.

 

How come all the Christmas commercials on TV are about hot chocolate and carols and family members in ivory sweaters sitting around the tree, lights flickering, laughing? Does anyone really live like that during the month of December?

 

And then of course, there is the self-inflicted pressure (I can probably search that phrase--self-inflicted pressure--on this blog and find it...repeatedly) of knowing that Christmas is coming...it's practically here!...and I have not enjoyed it. And that, perhaps, is at the heart of the problem: I want to enjoy it...like I did when I was a little kid, in my parents' house, an entire month of doing little else but anticipate and revel.

 

So for Christmas (and my birthday) all I want is to slow down. Take a few breaths. Sit. Laugh with my husband and my boys. Take it all in. Do nothing.

That's my name...in a REAL book! Launch Day for The HerStories Project Anthology

 

The four of us were stalking the UPS truck. I was totally trying to pretend it wasn't such a big deal.

 

But then my oldest turned the corner on his bike and yelled, "Mommy! Look!" and my youngest followed him on his drifter and announced, "It's the brown truck with the golden stripes!" 

 

The book arrived and I opened it up and turned to page 17, and I couldn't pretend anymore.

 

This was a very big deal.

 

I was giddy.

 

High.

 

There was my essay: "The More The Merrier."

There was my full name: Elizabeth Suarez Aguerre.

A real byline.

 

Perhaps I was a bit biased, but I thought the book was beautiful: pink and purple, the exact shades of my teenage bedroom. The cover was simple, but appealing. Just heavy enough in my hands.

 

A real book.

 

I have been published before (nine times to be exact!). You'd think that would be more than enough. But although I am extremely proud of those projects, they do not hold my true voice. This book is the real writing Me. It is the style and genre of writing that I have dreamed about being published in for as long as I can remember.

 

My essay sits there, sharing space with 49 other amazing women writers, and I am honored. These amazing editors, Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock, found my words, my piece, and thought it was good enough to be in this anthology on women's friendships. Thank you.

 

After showing the book to my boys ("Look, that's Mommy's name!"), Hubby and I toasted with a bottle of champagne. I carried it around the rest of the afternoon, under my arm, crystal flute in hand. After this experience, after feeling this feeling, I can no longer deny that I. Want. This.

 

This byline...this book...this opportunity has lit a fire under my ass. I can no longer pretend that my writing doesn't matter.

 



That's ME!!!!

To buy the book, click HERE or on the book's Amazon link at the top right corner of the page (pretty please?).

Learn more about the book, how it all started, the editors, and the rest of the awesome women writers featured at The HerStories Project. And please help us spread the word....tell your friends and family about it. The book really is a frickin' awesome collection of essays on "the joy, pain, and power of female friendship!"

My Life, in Lists: I'm thankful for...

When you ask fourth graders what they're thankful for, the answers will range from "my family" to "donuts."

Yesterday, my 44 students stood in a circle in the classroom, surrounding parents who had come to feast on pie and cupcakes and spend a few precious moments peeking into their children's school lives. And as these children shared their answers, I thought about how, if I were to be really honest, my responses would also range from the very big things to the donut-variety. Yes, health and family and shelter and enough money to pay the bills are certainly at the top of my Thanksgiving prayers this year, but then it's those little things that really make you smile and giddy in life.

I am thankful for...

1. Hubby (To quote a wise and hot man: "You will always be my 1, 2, and 3.")
4. My two little boys (because in spite of the fact that you drive me crazy and make my life that much more exhausting, it really is an honor to be your Mommy and know that you are little concoctions of Daddy and Me)
5. Healthy (and mostly kickin') parents who are still fun and kind and are practically my own personal babysitters
6. A cancer-free sister who is smiling again
7. The four-day weekend
8. The Christmas CDs are coming out
9. Red velvet mini cupcakes with cream cheese icing
10. My Girls (G, C, K: I love you guys)
11. Getting a copy of a book in the mail, opening it up, and seeing MY ESSAY IN IT!
12. Working with friends who always have my back and make me laugh
13. Living 20 minutes from some of the world's best beaches
14. Wine
15. Coffee
16. Beer
17. E! News
18. A nearly-healed plantar fasciitis
19. "Sex and the City" reruns
20. Really good books
21. Dave Matthews Band lyrics
22. Fresh air and sun
23. Christmas toy shopping nearly done
24. Finding a good therapist again
25. Effective migraine medication
26. Finding a boot camp class at the perfect time for my schedule that I do not have to pay extra for
27. Poetry
28. My Dearest Friend (B: I love you More Than That)
29. Fashion magazines
30. The feeling I get when I actually stop and concentrate on a deep, slow breath
31. Parents who tell me their children love to read or come to school because of me
32. Finally letting go of (most of) the angst, anger, and anxiety from my adolescence and twenties
33. The Birds of Paradise in my front yard
34. The pool in my backyard
35. Pizza
36. Everyone being healthy and here for Thanksgiving (I'll have to remember this one when some sort of inevitable dysfunctional situation occurs)
37. This blog, because it helped me remember who I was before I learned to censor myself
38. Sleep!

We need to talk

Here's the weird thing, I think, about friendships: we all want to be just like the characters of Sex and the City...all open and blunt and honest and communicative. We want to be able to talk to each other totally uncensored, unedited, with no nerves, no qualms, no reservations. But how many of us really, really do?

I talk a lot. I am super open with almost everyone. I think most of my friends would say that I am transparent. And although I know there are lots of things that I am not good at, I know I'm good at communicating. Yet, when it comes to talking to my girlfriends (and I mean my most intimate ones...The Ones Who Matter), I struggle. (Inside, at least.)

It's not the conversation part or the confrontation part. It's not that I don't know what to say or how to say it. It's all about the Should.

Should I tell her?
Should I be this upset/disturbed/bothered about it?
Should I risk disturbing the current status of this friendship about this "little thing"?

And there it is. It always manages to creep in. The self-doubt.

I doubt whether my feelings are valid enough.

The best way I can describe it is with the phrase: internally sheepish.

It's like, inside, I'm this little girl, digging the toe of her shoe into the playground dirt, tilting her head all lopsided-like to meet her shrugging shoulder, eyes averted, mumbling about hurt feelings.

On the outside, though, there's my Rational Self...the one that has had many years of therapy, lots of experiences to build herself up, and surrounds herself with wonderful people who inspire and enrich her.  Luckily, that's the version that shows up for The Big Stuff. That version ignores the sheepish little girl inside. That version knows that strong women who want strong friendships talk.

My friends--The Ones Who Matter--will surely read this sooner rather than later (they're awesome cheerleaders like that), and I wonder what they will think of this.

"Talk?" they will wonder, probably. "But we talk about everything."
"Talk?" they will wonder. "But Liz tells me what she thinks all the time." (I know...how lucky are they, huh?)

But I have no problems whatsoever talking about everything all the time: money, sex, men,
fears, goals, dreams, parenting, body issues, therapy sessions...

But talking about me being upset with them about something in particular?

I do it.
Eventually.
Inevitably.

But I hesitate.
I ponder.
I feel all uncomfortable and fidgety and internally sheepish.

I thought, initially, that this was just a Me thing...that most good female friends really hash it out on a regular basis, but then, I thought: Maybe not? Aren't we, women, known for being grudge-holders and petty? Aren't we known for keeping things in for the sake of peace? And don't most of us know of someone (or lived it ourselves) who had a female friendship that went, suddenly, wrong? I wonder how often other women get miffed at something a girlfriend did, a minor thing, perhaps, and they leave it alone...to sit there, to fester, to grow into something bigger? Something important?

So I am curious: When it comes to bringing something up that is nagging you about your female (good) friends, do you just throw it out there, no hesitation a la Samantha...No fear? No sheepishness?
Or are you more like Charlotte, and struggle sometimes, too?

P.S. And am I the only one who still really misses that show and its characters? Hopefully not, or else this post is going to seem really out-of-style.

A "Quiet" Sunday Morning

The sunlight creeps into the bedroom and I panic momentarily: did we oversleep?

But then, no, I realize, it's Sunday.

Not a workday.

Deep sigh of relief and contentment.

I settle back into sleep.

A while later, I hear the whispers that are happening clear across the house (still love the baby monitor even though there are no babies here): little brother is asking big brother if he is awake.

He is. now.

More muffled whispers about playing and breakfast and sleep and TV.

I stumble out of bed, turn the monitor down, get back under the covers, and once again, settle back into sleep.

Eventually, I am awakened again by plastic cereal bowls being placed on counter tops way too loudly....package rustling sounds followed by clinking into the plastic bowls.

They have found the Froot Loops.

The frig is opened and slammed. The silverware drawer is open and shut (loudly).

More "whispers."

I see the clock and realize the yoga class I had half-planned on taking has already started. Slight guilt and regret threaten, but they are quickly shushed with the reminder that lazy mornings rarely happen in this house. I suspect that such a morning probably has more Om value than the actual class.

I finally come out of hiding and turn on the coffee maker.

I am greeted by two moppy-headed boys in superhero underwear.

They have lost interest in the colorful circles of sugar and have moved onto guitars, of course, because it's Sunday morning.

I start to discourage, to warn them that Daddy is still in bed, the covers halfway covering his body, the pillow completely over his head. But then the littlest one actually starts to serenade me: "You are my sunshine" and "Twinkle Twinkle Star."

He wins, and instead, I send him into the bedroom to sing and play for Daddy.

Now the big one thinks it's the perfect time for a pirate sword. He jumps into our bed, straddling Daddy, sword in hand.

And this is it when you have boys: a blond little one wearing glasses and shrieking lullabies with a guitar, a brown-haired not-so-little one with round eyes threatening with foam swords.

Good morning.

I am a writer

I don't write for an audience.
I write for Me.

That's what I tell myself, anyways. And, for the most part, it's true.


I've been a writer for as long as I can remember.

That sentence, there, is hard for me to form:
I have been a writer for as long as I can remember.

Usually, it's more along the lines of:
I love to write...or...I have always loved writing...or...I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid...or, my favorite disclaimer of my artistic ability: Yes, I've had several books published, but that doesn't really count, because they were educational books, so I'm not really a writer, I just love to write.

"But ultimately, a writer is someone who writes," according to Dani Shapiro, author of Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life.

And write, I do.

All the time and everywhere and for as long as I can remember: scribbled sentences on coffee shop napkins, diaries and journals and notebooks filled to the margins, pages and pages of typed up "chapter books" on my sister's typewriter when I was eleven, love letters, hate letters, poems filled with angst and dripping in narcissism, musings and essays and blog posts...

I write.

Always have.

And for the first time in my life, I am just starting to realize that I no longer want to clean that up, or tack a disclaimer onto it, or apologize for it, or explain it. It's a very, very big part of who I am. It's the one thing I found all on my own, when I was very little, and figured out that not only could I do it pretty well, but I loved doing it, and even more consequential: I needed to do it.

It's because of this need--this internal thing--that I write for myself. I write because I have to. I write because when some thought starts pinging around inside my head, I can't get it out until I put it to paper (or, in this case, screen). So yes, I was being truthful when I said: I don't write for an audience. I write for myself.

But I never said it didn't matter if someone else reads it, or says it's good, or tells me I moved her or made her laugh or made her feel relief. I write for myself, but when someone is out there and notices it, well then...it makes the rapture of having written something all the more...rapturous.

That's why when Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock of The HerStories Project contacted me and asked if they could include one of my pieces in their upcoming anthology, it was a really, really big deal. I don't think I realized, in fact, how much I actually cared if there really was an audience out there until this happened. I keep saying how "honored" I am to be included amongst these 50 contributing writers for this project, but I feel like it sounds so cliché. Everyone says I'm honored, all the time. But I am. I am honored.

It is a honor.

...An honor that they found me, that somehow out there in the blogosphere, someone read my words and thought they were good enough and important enough and relevant enough to include in this project.

I wrote the essay that will be included in the anthology for Me. I wrote it because, at the time, I needed to. I wrote it because I'm a writer. But it sure is nice when someone else is sitting out there, in the audience, listening and applauding.

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

"The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship is a collection of essays from over 50 women writers, encompassing tales from the sandbox to the inbox."
All the info on the book can be found here.  Read some of the early reviews, find out how this project got started, and of course, look for li'l ol' me on the "Contributor" tab. And then, make sure you sign up for updates...you'll receive all the information on the book's upcoming release, as well as sneak peeks and discount information.

Can you really?

 

 

any break
 

from

the routine

is

welcomed

 
 

anything different
 

is a

reprieve

from what Life demands

day to day

 

I long

for some
thing
 anything

that feels

like

cheating

breaking free

rebelling

against

the

norm

 

beating the system