relationships

I’m going to rat myself out. Tell on my bad self. Tattle, like that snotty little kid back in grade school who thought he was the boss of everybody.

Well, I AM the boss of me and I’m here to tell you—I struggled with Shame on Saturday. Big Time.

I have to fess up because we talk about shame so much on this blog—how on earth could I look at myself in the mirror if I acted like it never touched MYlife.
Of course, it does! It’s not on the menu everyday—but more often than I’d like to admit.

What kind of whatever I am (blogger, advice giver, sister, friend, wife, nosey posey) would I be if I kept this to myself?

Now, there are numerous types of shame, many which I’ve experienced and some, by the grace of God, I have not.

This was not registered sex-offender shame, nor was it young divorcee or I wore a penguin costume to work on the wrong day shame.

This was familiar to me. Similar to bathing suit dressing room shame, only different.
Oh yeah, I knew this Shame.

We became intimately acquainted ( it slept with me most nights) during the year or so my store struggled financially—and every year since then it comes around less and less, but there are exceptions.
Trigger situations.
Believe me, I can still recognize Shame even with a different face and better shoes because it continues to wear that same cheap cologne and shit-eating grin.

Let me explain.
I have a ten-year-old car with almost 95,000 miles on it. It is not some piece-of-shit clunker with a bumper held on with masking tape. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had one of those. But this is different. It’s been meticulously maintained by yours truly and it’s one of those German Imports, a classy tank.

I’ve mentioned several, well maybe not several, is several more than three? Okay, then three. I’ve mentioned maybe three times that I wish it had Bluetooth, you know, for my phone. There, I admit to a tinge of Bluetooth envy. But never in a million years did I ever say:
“God, I hate my car, what a colossal piece of shit, I wish it was better, I need a new car!”

So, are we clear?

My current car is perfectly lovely. I could even go out on a limb and say it would be a lot of people’s dream car.

Shame. Oof. I can smell its strong cologne already.

Being that my car was getting close to having one hundred thousand miles on it, my husband, the car guy, gear head numero uno, began to ask me what car I thought I’d like next. My answer most times was: the Same car just newer I guess. The other times I told him I was perfectly happy with my existing car.

“What color would you get IF you were to get a new car?” he baited me.
“Blue, dark blue with tan interior.”
I chose that combination mostly because it is almost impossible to find. It would take him months and months to come up with a car in that combination.

I kept the New Car Shame at bay—or so I thought.

Thursday he emailed me a car at a local dealership fitting that exact description.
Shit.
“Let’s go check it out on Saturday” he suggested.

That is my husband’s ideal day. Vehicle shopping. Add a steak dinner and a nice bottle of wine to that and he could die a happy man.
I loath shopping for a car, besides, I really thought the one I was driving was just fine, Thank you very much.
But my mouth overrode my brain—it does that a lot. “Okay,” I agreed.

Now you’re all thinking oh, boo-hoo, he wants to buy you a nice new car. Where’s the problem? Quit your whining!
Well, that’s what I told myself all the way down to the dealership. But as we all know, logic and reason are no match for Shame.
Shame kicks their asses every damn time.

After we looked at it and I sat in it and even gave it a test spin, my husband eyeballed me with that “Let’s take it” look I know so well.

I froze. I stammered and stuttered, staring off into space, my eyes spinning in their sockets and I’m sure it appeared to the gregarious salesman as if I’d suddenly suffered a stroke.
“Can you give us a few minutes,” my husband asked after he observed my bizarre behavior, sending the salesman back into the showroom to stew in suspense.

I could feel the hot river of shame burn in my veins as it replaced all the blood in my body.
I observed it. I named it. I even cursed it. Well, duh!

I wanted to shout I’m feeling Ashamed! at the top of my lungs so it would crawl out of the shadows and dissipate.
That’s what happens when you acknowledge Shame. It leaves. I can only exist if it’s kept a secret.
But it had inhabited me so completely at that point I could barely gather my thoughts. A sinister voice had taken over the Pollyanna Land that normally resides inside my brain, spoon-feeding me well-disguised bullshit.

It was a sickening, sad, and sorry case of New Car Shame.

Now, I could get lost in the minutia of this moment and how horrible it all felt. I could do that. It’s kinda what I do. How my right eyelid was twitching compulsively and it suddenly felt like all the saliva had left my mouth. How everything went into slow-motion, like walking through deep water on stilts.

What? I think he’s talking to me. What’s he saying?

“What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this what you want?” he asked, not used to seeing me frozen and silent.

This man is a good man.
He is incredibly generous with me. Probably too generous. (See there it is).

Here’s what I SAID—out loud—remember? No more secrets.

“I don’t currently have a job that brings in any money. I don’t pull my own weight. At the moment, our relationship is financially lopsided and unbalanced. You are literally supporting me—for now. ( I always have to add that). Who am I to have a new car? Such a nice new car? (the rabbit hole was in sight). This is all making me extremely uncomfortable. Why are we doing this? Why are YOU doing this?”

Now, here’s what I was THINKING—thanks to that piece of shit, Shame:
You shouldn’t reward me for not working. You don’t gift an unemployed writer a snazzy new car. That comes later. Let me PROVE my worth. Let me drive my existing car into the ground. Let me wait until the bumper is held on by masking tape. I don’t deserve a new car. Not one so nice. Not This car. Especially not this car.

That is a veritable Molotov cocktail of Shame. And I was throwing it back like a barfly.

So there. I’m ratting myself out. I went there, to that dark place of unworthiness. I was So freaking ashamed of myself.

“You are the hardest working unemployed person I know”, he said looking me straight in the eye which was made difficult by the fact that mine were spinning and I had started to wander, walking in circles to clear my head.

“You have manufactured a writing career out of thin air, which you work tirelessly on EVERYDAY. That has not gone unnoticed by me.”

He was right goddammit! I have so many irons in the fire these days that my fire is full. You couldn’t squeeze another iron in that fire if you tried.

“And explain to me what in God’s name any of this has to do with a car. You need a new car for MY peace of mind.”

Shame triggers. They make no sense.
They are ridiculous and if you try to sidestep them like I did, YOU look ridiculous.

So there you have it—my story of New Car Shame, and how it ALMOST won. I have named it so many times and now I’ve written about it so it must skulk away, back into the shadows, preferably back to hell— because it is my wish to be free.

Do you have a Shame story to share?

Carry on,

xox

How are you with loss? OMG you guys I sucked at it!

Coping with any kind of loss has been a learning curve for me.

First I was a cold-blooded jackass looking for payback, then an armoured up she-devil, then, slowly, eventually. I started to figure things out.
Take a look, see if what you did was radically different (do tell) or if you are a part of my tribe.

Please share with anyone you know who might need this right now. I’d also love it if you’d leave a comment on the HuffPo.

Thank you, love you, and carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/learning-to-navigate-loss_b_8671602.html

So… you can practice acceptance like I suggested to help you cope or you can thank Adele.

Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

After years of exhaustive, mind-numbing, soul-crushing research and a lifetime’s supply of tears—I have found this to be true.

Sadness is pretty much at the root of anger. And jealousy. And insecurity. And, and, and…

Are you mad? What are you sad about waaaay underneath all that rage?
What is anger protecting?
What is so raw that you’ll pick a bar-fight in order NOT to look at it.

Hey, listen, don’t kill the messenger!

Tell your bodyguard to back off.

Love you,
Carry on,
xox

Thank you, doctor, for keeping me waiting forty minutes for my fifteen-minute, two hundred and fifty dollar consultation.
I was your second appointment of the day. How could you be running that far behind? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m firing you on account of bad time management. I may not have all the letters after my name, but my time is just as valuable as yours.

Thank you, dear friend who is chronically late because she can never find parking.
Because of you I keep a ten-minute window ahead of all my appointments, even lunch dates, to make sure I can wrangle the admittedly criminal lack of sufficient parking in Los Angeles.
I love you so I’ll tolerate this one character flaw.

Thank you every commercial airline I’ve ever flown.
You treat departure and arrival times as loose suggestions, which has forced me to get all the apps that alert me of your lateness so that I don’t end up getting trapped at the airport, overspending at the duty-free shops, or standing so long at the arrivals gate that I end up printing a random name on a box lid just to fit in.

As long as I’m venting, thank you private jet travel.
I’ve been fortunate to partake in your luxurious expediency and I must say: You have ruined me.
It is my belief that NO individual who is financially incapable of sustaining their own jet ( which is 99% of us), should be allowed to fly private.
It is a mind fuck on steroids.
When they say they’re leaving at 10, you may arrive at 9:50, but you will be wildly, inappropriately, “rookie” early because by 9:53 someone will have taken your bags, lead you to your double-wide, leather, Barcalounger; peeled you a grape, dipped you a strawberry, massaged your feet and told you a joke. There is no long security line, no barefooted X-ray pat down or frantic belt removal.
And if everyone is on board by 9:54 — they just take off.
What?
It’s too good. I can’t take it! Never again.

And last but not least thank you over-entitled rock singers. You know who you are.
At my current age of fifty-seven I’m well aware that I’ve wasted vast portions of my youth, hundreds if not thousands of hours, waiting for you to start your fucking concerts and I’m pissed and I want that time back! I know you’ve been to the arena or stadium. You had a soundcheck and a driver for Pete’s sake. Why can’t you manage to be fed, made-up and dressed by showtime? I can.
Is that too much to ask for the millions we’re paying to see you live? I just don’t get.

And thank you, Taylor Swift. Although I’ve yet to see you live, I heard you start your set right on time. Just one of the things I love about you.

Sorry about that, I just needed to vent. I have a thing about punctuality!
What about you? Are you late as a habit? Do you think it’s rude? How long will you wait for someone?

Carry on,
xox

Holy Crap! I was just having this conversation with some girlfriends this weekend. Nobody has any freakin’ energy! Is it the time change? The darker, colder days? WTF?  Then I read this essay by Liz Gilbert and every, single, word resonated! So, of course, I had to share it with you guys!

I have gotten more energy in my fifties for a lot of the reasons she talks about below, but I know I have more stupid shit to jettison! How about you?
xox

You’re going to love this: Take it away Liz!

THE SECRET TO HAVING MORE ENERGY!

Dear Ones –
My whole life, I’ve defined myself as a low-energy person. For years, I would have told you that I get run-down easily, and I’ve always needed about 10 hours of sleep a day to get by. (8 hours is minimum, but 10 is ideal.) I would have told you that I am susceptible to every cold and virus out there, and that, on a group trip, I will for sure be the first person to get sick. On a hike, I would be the first one to quit. I have always been somebody who falls asleep in movies, in class, on park benches. I’ve been known to go and visit people at their offices, and ask if they have a supply closet somewhere that I can take a nap.

But that’s all changed in the last few years. I’m 46 now and I have more energy than I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve finally discovered what is (for me, at least) the secret to having more energy. It’s not a supplement, not a beverage, not a diet, not a ground-breaking new exercise regime.
It’s much simpler than that.

Here’s what I’ve realized: If I want more energy, I don’t need to go out and find more energy from some outside source. I only need to stop wasting the energy that I already possess on stupid shit.

For most of my life, the reason I was so lethargic was because I was pouring my energy into various external emotional black holes. These black holes included: strings of bad romantic relationships, nasty breakups and desperate sexual encounters; co-dependent or toxic or otherwise exhausting friendships; the thankless work of trying to please people who cannot be pleased; the equally thankless work of trying to save people who don’t really want to be saved; the TOTALLY thankless work of trying to get somebody to love me who doesn’t want to love me; getting involved in other people’s business that is none of my business; trying to pretend I was somebody I am not; spending money on things I didn’t really want or need in order to soothe myself from my latest emotional horror show; taking on tasks (out guilt or duty) that I was never equipped for or good at; denying myself self-care out of a sense of low self-worth; wearing myself out by digging deep pits in which to bury my pathologies rather than healing them…
There were more black holes, but that’s a good starter list.

Any of it sound familiar?

All of those things take energy. Metric shit-tons of energy. So much energy that, of course, by the end of each day I had nothing left for myself. (In fact, I usually STARTED each day with nothing left for myself.)
So I walked around for years saying, “Man, I have such low energy! Maybe I should eat more flax seeds, or something?”

No.

It ain’t about the flax seeds. (Although flax seeds are very nice, don’t get me wrong. But it ain’t about the flax seeds.)
The truth is, as I have learned in recent years, I actually have TONS of energy. I’m a person who was born to be on fire with life. But the reason I was so exhausted until very recently, was because I spent most of my life leaking my energy out (pouring it out really) into all the wrong places.If you blew through energy like I blew through energy, you will be out of energy very quickly, too. For me to say, “Jeez, I just don’t have enough energy!” is like Mike Tyson saying, as he faces bankruptcy after blowing through his 400 million dollar fortune: “Jeez, I just didn’t earn enough money!”
No, Mike Tyson. You did not go bankrupt because you weren’t given enough money. You went bankrupt because you bought 10 mansions, 100 luxury cars, a golden bathtub, and THREE ALBINO TIGERS!
And no, Liz Gilbert, you were not tired because you didn’t have enough energy, or because you weren’t drinking enough water. You were tired because  YOU TRADED EVERY MOLECULE OF ENERGY YOU HAD FOR DRAMA AND TRAUMA.

Fucked up interpersonal relationships were my albino tigers, you guys. Toxic friendships were my golden bathtubs. Trying to please, change, seduce, or fix every single person I met were my 100 luxury cars. It all bled me dry.

The transformation for me came when I started asking myself “Where is my energy going?” instead of asking, “How can I get more energy?”

When I saw where my energy was going, and decided that I didn’t want it going there anymore — that’s when everything started to change. I realized that I had made my life too big, too crazy, too out-of-control. I couldn’t begin to feel the magnitude of my own energy until I learned to create boundaries. Or how to excuse myself from other’s people’s dramas. Or how to stop inventing dramas of my own, the way kids carelessly play with matches until eventually they burn something down. Or how to stop pretending to be happy when I’m not. Or how to accept the fact that the only person I can change is myself (and even then — BARELY!) Or how to get out of the “I will rescue you if you rescue me!” business. Or how to learn to stop saying “Yeah, sure!” when what I really meant to say was “Hell, no!” Or how to measure friendship not by how many “friends” I have, but how deep and true the love is with the tiny number of people whom I can actually trust with my life. Or how to learn to forgive myself and others, and shake it off, and move on.

I write this message to you this fine morning, having just come back from a five-mile run. My thirty-year-old self couldn’t have run five FEET, because she was so weary, so spent, so tired, so jacked-up and wiped out and bone dry and aching and depleted. But my day is just getting started, and I’m fire with all that is to be done. Gonna work on a new book today. Gonna check in with my peeps. Gonna get on my knees at some point and pray. Gonna cook a nice dinner tonight. Gonna laugh with my husband.

Suddenly there aren’t enough hours in the day for all that I want to be, all that I want to do, and for the tiny handful of people who I actually love with all my heart.

Life is smaller than it used to be for me, but so, so, SO much bigger.
So, of course…now I have to ask you: Where is your energy going? What is your albino tiger? What can you let go of, to gain access to the power that is already inside you?
ONWARD
LG

Yeah…I was going to write something high-minded and profound on the subject of forgiveness, but after today—sometimes it really is just this simple.
You’re an asshole —and I forgive you.

It doesn’t mean that you need to overlook what that person did wrong.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shitfest.

It doesn’t even mean they were completely wrong and you were completely right.

I’m pretty sure it takes a party of two to get a table at the shitfest—right?

Here’s what I do know for sure:

The object of our forgiveness may never change—but we can!

Carry on,
xox

In case you struggle with this the way I do.

It’s almost NEVER about you. 99.9% of the time. I promise.

Everyone is busy thinking about their own story.

BIG sigh…What a fucking relief!

Carry on with your bad selves this weekend,
xox

I just was left a message on my phone from my darling niece.
She is currently deep into her post-graduate studies in New York, and since I live in LA it’s been months since we’ve seen each other.
I miss her.

Now, if you had asked me if she ever gave me a moment’s thought, I’d have said: Hell no!
But I was wrong. And I don’t mind being wrong…in this instance.

Let me just describe this virtual hug, because it was delicious.
It was so delicious that I’m going to use all of its ingredients to craft my own and I’m going to surprise hug someone. That’s how nice it was!
You should do it too.

Timing: IMPORTANT. Not before 7am and not after 10pm. Those calls are fraught with anxiety and just plain annoying.
You always think: Uh oh, aunt Barbara died. Mid morning is good.

One large scoop of warmth: Make sure this is pure organic warmth, not that imitation stuff.

Tone of voice: Very important—not rushed, not like you’re jumping out of a cab or racing to a hair appointment. Slow and steady. Chill.

Just a dash of well-chosen words, don’t ramble. Rambling just confuses people.
Remember, this is a virtual hug. Can’t be too short (insincere) or too long (awkward).

Mix all these ingredients gently into a phone message.
Serves—All

I think a message is preferable. Pick a time you know they can’t answer.
It wouldn’t have been AS effective if I’d picked up, but hey, a hugs a hug right?
But, the surprise of listening to it later is part of the whole virtual hug experience.

Seriously, she just said: I hope your day is going well, just sending you a big warm hug. Know that I’m thinking of you and I wished we talked more, I love you and have a beautiful Friday.

Short. Sweet. Delicious.

Let’s all do it.
I encourage you
No, I challenge you,
No, I double dog dare you.
To virtually hug somebody this weekend.

Xox