Keep walking

I live with an anxiety disorder and depression. During sane times, I manage both very well. In fact, I karate-chop the hell out of those disorders with medication, good food, no alcohol and exercise. I also do things that make me happy and surround myself with non-assholes. It usually works like a charm.

But still, my skin is thin. My friends tell me that it is my vulnerability that makes me strong. But it’s my vulnerability that makes me weak too. I find myself overwhelmed by the recent events in Greece. There is too much anger, too much sadness, too much uncertainty. I need some time to process it.

I’ve hope in my heart. And it has always served me well in the past. I imagine I’ll be back to blogging regularly just as soon as find my way back to my happy place.

I’ll leave you with this:

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Note to self

Don't try to win over the haters. You're not the jerk whisperer. {+Pinterest}

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The Five Commandments of Integrity

For a big-time reader and small-time writer, my vocabulary is rather poor. Don’t get me wrong, I know a lot of words, it’s just that I find I don’t know their definitions all that well. A few years ago, I stubbornly argued with a friend that he’d used the word opaque ALL WRONG.

“Do you wear stockings?” I said and before he could reveal a secret fetish I probably didn’t want to know about, I continued, “You don’t! I’m a woman and a writer! I think I know that opaque means transparent.”

I would have argued my point to my dying breath had it not been for his Blackberry, and Google. He shoved the definition in my face.

Opaque: not transparent.

Oops.

There are other words that I kind of understand. Like obtuse. I understand it in context but if you asked me to define it, I’d stare at you with a faraway look in my eye. (I just looked it up and get this. It means: difficult to understand.)

Dear Obtuse, You’re obtuse. Love, Eleni

And until about a month ago, I didn’t really understand the word integrity. I understood it when people used it to describe people and I knew that it had something to do with morals.

Then I found this definition while reading a book: Psychologist Erich Fromm describes integrity as a ”willingness not to violate one’s identity.”

I finally got it. And when I say I got it, I mean my brain opened up and the word slipped inside and the doors slammed shut behind it. It’s now forever locked inside me. Plus, I can now say with utmost confidence that the icky feeling that spread through my body sometimes is the result of violating my identity. Score!

And while I do have strong morals that make me a good person overall, my goodness usually serves others better than it serves me. The way I behave to myself has, for the most part, lacked in integrity. This is my attempt to change that.

The 5 Commandments of Integrity

#1 Thou shall not violate my identity for love

Every time I have let a man into my life and have moved at his pace because I’m afraid of losing him at mine, I have violated my identity. I should care more about violating my identity than losing some guy that doesn’t get my identity

#2 Thou shall not violate my identity for success.

As a self-published author, I read a lot of blogs of other self-published writers. They use different promotional tools to get large amounts of people to give them five-star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. I’m not going to lie, there have been times when I’ve thought of employing the same means. But when I think of it, I die a little inside. I may only have five reviews on Amazon and other writers have hundreds, but at least I can guarantee that mine are genuine.

#3 Thou shall not pretend to be someone I’m not.

I’m an introvert through and through. But for a long time, I would go to great lengths to be an extrovert. This usually involved saying yes when I wanted to say no. When I had the good sense to say no, I’d feel like a failure. It didn’t help that my friends would joke that I was like an old woman. Next time someone calls me that, I shall say:”You mean I’m wise and I know my limits? Then absolutely! I’m totally an old lady!”

Which brings me to…

#4 Thou shall not blindly accept OTHERS definitions of me.

Branding experts tell you that you need to define your brand clearly before someone else does it for you. Because someone else will do it for you and you might not like it and then you’re stuck with an identity that isn’t you. For a long time, my brother and sister called me a brat. I believe it’s a common name for the youngest child in a family. This name followed me for years and I couldn’t get rid of it. I believed that I was a brat and so then I indulged my inner brat and became a brat.

I’ve got into the habit of reflecting on definitions that others have thrown on me without my permission or even my awareness and if they don’t fit, I chuck them out. I will not let anyone’s perception of me violate my identity.

#5 Thou shall be Eleni.

I’m open to growing. I’m open to having my beliefs challenged and I’m open to exploring new things. So there is no need to apologize, prove, explain and rationalize who I am and what I like to myself or others.

How do you make sure you don’t violate your identity?

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“The opposite of fear isn’t courage. It’s trust.

May I direct your attention to the Stratejoy Essay Contest for a minute or two? The prompt was: “How do you live life on your terms?” I spent close to two weeks writing almost 5000 words on the topic but finally managed to condense my thoughts into one short story.

And it was picked as a finalist! Joyful day!

I would love for you to head over there today to read, comment and share. But only share it if it makes you kick off your shoes, throw on some red lipstick and then swan dive onto your bed shouting: I’m freee, bitches!

(Fine, you can also share it if you don’t do any of those things.)

In a few weeks time I’m going to remind you of this contest and ask you to cast your vote for your favourite essay. In the meantime, please go read.

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Note to self

Silence is the best response to a fool
{+ Noodlesndoodles }

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Other people’s love stories

My world is littered with stories of men and women who are supposedly in love. A friend tells me a story about a friend of a friend. She married a man who had cheated on her for months. Everyone knew, except for her. When she found out, when she accepted the truth, she still married him. Another friend tells me a similar story, except it was a he who married a she who had cheated on him for years.

I eavesdrop on stories swapped quietly in aisles of the supermarket. Two friends walk side by side. The content of their basket tells me they’re making some sort of chicken pasta dish for dinner. The cute one tells the cuter one: He’s incapable of doing anything for himself.”  Her friend eggs her on: “Men are useless!” They laugh; painfully.

I ask my hair dresser about the stories that women tell his reflection. I want to know the ones that are yelled at him, over the high hiss of his hair dryer.

He tells me about a woman who comes in once a month to cover the brown in her blond but does nothing to mask the jealousy that seeps from her roots.

“This one time her boyfriend came with her to get a haircut and Maria- he points to his assistant. “- Maria was washing his hair, and you know, we give head massages. Well, she walked over and told Maria, Don’t enjoy it so much. He’s still coming home with me. And then he replied, “Shut up, you idiot. You’re a psycho.”

These stories are passed onto me because I ask. I’m curious about the lives of others. It frustrates me that I can only see the world through my eyes; coloured by my own experiences. I used to think teleportation would be cool. I could go anywhere in the world. Swish! I don’t want to travel to foreign countries though. I want to live in foreign shoes. I want scientists to invent soul-swapping.

In lieu of that, I ask everyone I meet to tell me stories. I hear about women who spend years out of their lives trying to change the men they love. And I hear about men who simply ignore their women. I hear about reciprocal emotional abuse. I hear about betrayal, disrespect and lies. I hear about control, jealousy and manipulation.

Across the board, women call men useless and men call women crazy. I cringe at both words. But I’m also impressed. We say we don’t understand each other, yet we both -men and women- know the exact spot to hurt each other.

I hear these Chinese whispers of stories in my shoes. In the shoes of a woman who has been single for far too long and doesn’t remember what love feels like. I hear these stories, in my shoes, and because I’m in my shoes and because there’s no soul-swapping allowed, my brain cannot compute these connections.

I still know that there is someone out there who could love me for who I am. It’ s a logical argument. But I’m having trouble trusting the logic because the stories that litter my world aren’t logical at all.

They’re messy. They’re highly-charged. They’re senseless. I think: These people don’t deserve having the thing that I want.

But then I remember that the relationship I want is not the relationship they have. I don’t want to marry a person who has repeatedly cheated on me. I don’t want to love a man who thinks I’m crazy. I don’t want to be loved by a man I think is useless.

I don’t mind mess, but I don’t want dirt. I want highly-charged respect. I want senseless curiosity. I don’t have any of this yet. I don’t have this relationship yet because like teleportation  I haven’t discovered the man who will be part of this relationship yet.

I’m holding out for soul-swapping love.

And that’s the story I want my hairdresser to share with some other girl who sits in his chair and asks him to tell her about other people’s love stories.

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Dear Future Husband,

It’s time I told you something important. Please don’t judge me. Here goes…

I keep a box of Special K cereal next to my bed. At all times. I hide it when people come over because I don’t want them to think that I eat in bed. But I do.

I’m a bed-eater.

At the end of every day, I get into bed to watch shows or read a book. I guess I could sit on my couch and do these things. But I need to read in bed. Reading is like dreaming. I’ve got to be cocooned under covers to really enjoy them. I could watch shows on my TV in the living room, but I need to attach my laptop using three cables to do that, and that’s one cable too many. Besides, the living room is cold when it’s just me. So I end up in my bedroom.

The cereal is next to my bed for when I get peckish. Days can pass by and I’ll forget it’s even there. Other times, I can eat an entire box over the course of 48 hours.

There are crumbs in my bed in the morning. I hate myself a little when I clean them. I feel sad and pathetic. I suspect girls who share beds with boys aren’t as gross as me. I bet they don’t  sleep with broken flakes under their cheeks.

And then I think of you, or rather, I think of the idea of you. Will I hide this habit from you when we first meet? I suppose I will. I suppose I’ll move my box into the kitchen and pretend I only eat cereal in the morning.

I’ll move it back into my bedroom when you’re not there. Then one day, months in, you’ll find a flake I missed and you’ll  ask me about it. I’ll  feign surprise but I’ll spill the truth.

“I EAT CEREAL IN BED, OKAY? I WAS SINGLE FOR A REALLY LONG TIME. CEREAL IS MY FRIEND. IT KEPT ME WARM. IT UNDERSTOOD ME. IT COMFORTED ME. DON’T MAKE ME CHOOSE BETWEEN YOU AND SPECIAL K.”

I imagine you’ll fake a frown and storm into my kitchen. I’ll be worried. You’ll come back with a bowl filled to the top with my snack du jour and you’ll say:

“There’s enough room for both me and Special K.” Then you’ll jump under the covers with me. “Just eat from a bowl. Less chance of making a mess.”

And I will, future husband.

I’ll eat my Special K out of a bowl for you.

Love,
Eleni

Share your experiences with me: What secret single behaviour did you OUT when you got into a relationship?

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Win a signed copy of Hope Dies Last: Lessons in Love!

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“It goes Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day. Is that fair to anyone who’s alone? If you didn’t get around to killing yourself on Christmas or New Year’s – Boom! There’s Valentine’s Day for you. There should be a holiday after Valentine’s Day called:  ‘Are you still here?’“

- Comedian Laura Kightlinger -
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I found this quote a few years back and I like to dig it out around this season as a reminder that being single can be a lot of things, and sometimes, that thing is…duh duh dun: THE END OF THE WORLD.

For three consecutive months of the year, I AM SINGLE stands at the forefront of my mind.  It starts with those short, dark days in early December that make me want to curl in front of a fireplace with a man who will play Cluedo with me, only to find I have no man. Or a fireplace. Then, stupid municipality hangs fairy lights all up in my face. Come on! Don’t they know that fairy lights make me want to walk together with a lover while we blow balloon clouds into the air?  And then….then all of that ends  with bouquets of flowers being sold on every corner, flowers I know will not arrive at my front door. Yet, every year there’s that tiny, delusional part of my brain that thinks I’ll be getting a posy of tulips from a secret admirer. And every year, I don’t.

Hope is exhausting and I need a break.

I suspect we all need a little something to help us get through these last few rough weeks ahead. To wit! I’ve got some cool surprises planned for you over the next 14 days. You really don’t want to miss out on this!

And they start today with this one:  Simone from Skinny Dip is giving away a SIGNED COPY of my book, Hope Dies Last: Lesson in Love to ONE lucky reader! Click on over now to enter and best of luck!

I’ll be over here practicing my signature and coming up with the most hopeful message I can to write in the winner’s copy. I will not under any circumstances be day-dreaming about flowers I won’t be getting.

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