A Post for the Broken.

Sometimes I struggle with positive thinking.

Sometimes I think it’s a ridiculous lie to wake up every day and tell myself how awesome I am and how amazing life is.  

Affirmations make me laugh and remind me of that old Stuart Smalley Saturday Night Live skit. (Yes, I'm old.)  Stuart's trademark line is: "I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me!"

I know don’t if people like me. 

I don’t know if I care that they do.

But I like me. And that wasn’t always the case.

I used to scroll social media, wondering why the people who tell us to think positive and love ourselves are all beautiful people. Did you ever notice that?

Who’s gonna listen to fucking quasimodo tell us to think positive and love ourselves? That won’t sell. That’s not a brand. (And yet, I try.)

And, sure, a lot of those beautiful people telling us “broken” others that we should think positive are how they are because of their hard work. I’m absolutely not taking anything away from the hustle…

But let’s be real: there might also be a touch of filters, genetic make-up, and maybe some plastic surgery--I'm not hating. If I had the cash I'd do an extreme fucking makeover on my face.

Insecurities weave themselves through my thoughts constantly. Even as I try to keep a positive and motivational spirit. I can’t help it. It’s how my brain is wired. It’s why I chose the tagline: Be Kind. Love Hard.

Because it’s not hard—or inauthentic—for me to be kind. I want to be kind to people. I LIKE being kind to people. I LIKE loving (certain) people with every fiber of my soul. I really do. I want other people to feel good because I’ve been in their life. I don’t know if that’s narcissistic or not. If it is, then I’ll take that title. Happily.

But being positive all the time is difficult for me.

Just the other day, a friend grilled me—in one of those awesome I-needed-this ways. And the real insecurities came out. The ones I never admit to anyone. The ones that are still there when I strip away all the positive shit I try to make myself believe.

Here’s how I explained it: One of the most disappointing and depressing moments in my life came after an author photo shoot I did a few years back. I got my hair done for it. I got my make-up done for it. I hired a photographer who took beautiful photos and had MAD editing skills!

And when I got the pictures, I cried. I sobbed, actually. Because I tried so hard to be beautiful. I pulled out all the stops I had the power and money to use…and I looked at every photo and cried. Because even after all that effort...I was still ugly. 

I feel that same way about writing. The same friend asked me what I was afraid of in trying to get to the next stage in my career. 

My answer: I’m always afraid of putting in all the effort…writing the words, perfecting the sentences, running themes throughout, using literary devices—making it the best book I can possibly wrIte—and for it to still suck. Or even worse—for it to not sell.

I’m proud of every book I’ve ever written. I like the product I release. I have grown as a writer. But every time I put a new work out there, a new piece of my soul--I still think it's not good enough.

For what? For who?

I don’t know.

I’m not looking for sympathy or attention or compliments with this post. I’m giving you the story straight out of my head. I know my negative thoughts aren’t truth. These are the internal battles I face every day. 

What if my next book becomes a USA Today or NYT bestseller? Will that “validation” be the catalyst to make me feel differently?

No.

But I can’t stop the voices in my head saying: It was a fluke. It’s not because you’re a good writer. It's not because you have a creative writing degree. It's not because of your hard work over the last seven years of intensely studying the craft and learning marketing, and then studying and learning agian when everything changes. It's not because of the countless books you’ve read in various genres to learn from others.

The thoughts are always there, but I can’t live in that place of negativity. I have to push though.

I choose positivity. I choose kindness. I choose strength.

Because if I don’t, what do I have? What is there in life? What impact do I have in the grand scheme of things? 

Am I gonna be on this earth, live a few unimpactful years, then die?

When I let my thoughts go that way…who does it help?

It doesn’t help me. It doesn’t help my kids. It doesn’t help all the wonderful, beautiful, “broken” people who I’m so grateful to have met in my life. 

So there you go. Even after years of taking anti-anxiety medication. And after motherhood. And after XYZ number of books sold. There’s your glimpse into what I struggle with every day. 

I don't have the answers.

I can't save you.

You can only save yourself.

But I can be here for you. I can listen. I can talk with you. I can guide you to resources to help you train your brain to think a different way when those thoughts come up. I can care about you and let you know how much of an impact you have made in my life and how amazing you are as an individual. I WANT TO DO ALL OF THESE THINGS!

But I can't make you love yourself.

If you're reading this, I truly hope you don’t have these struggles. But if you do, know that you are not alone. And that every single day we have to keep pushing.

Push to do the work to retrain your brain. Push to impact the people you come in contact with. Push to support, be kind to, and LOVE the people in your life that you cherish--or the one’s that need it. Push to make your slice world a better place—because I truly believe it is, just by you being in it.

You matter.

It’s okay to not be okay.

I’m here for you.

I love you.

Swim for the music that saves you

“You gotta swim

Swim for your life

Swim for the music that saves you

when you’re not so sure you’ll survive”

July 2002

I have no recollection of how many pills I'd swallowed.

It was at least 20--because that's how many I'd counted out for myself

"to start with."

“You gotta swim
Swim when it hurts
The whole world is watching
You haven't come this far
To fall off the earth

The currents will pull you
Away from your love
Just keep your head above”

Deep down, I didn’t really want to die. But I couldn’t see a way out

from the Anger. Loneliness. Anxiety. Insecurity. Rejection. Self-Loathing.

My eyelids were heavy. My mouth dry.

With every breath, I willed myself to fall asleep, knowing it might mean I was dead;

at the same time, I feared falling asleep, because it might mean I was dead.

“I found a tidal wave
Begging to tear down the dawn
Memories like bullets
They fired at me from a gun
Crack in the armor, yeah
I swim to brighter days
Despite the absence of sun
Choking on salt water
I'm not giving in
Swim”

Memories like bullets...real fucking bullets. Real fucking blood.

The horrific memory of staring out the front window of our old house in the Detroit--the one we didn't even live in anymore--

and seeing my mother's body crumpled in a pool of blood on the sidewalk.

“You gotta swim
For nights that won't end
Swim for your families,
Your lovers, your sisters,
Your brothers, and friends
You gotta swim
For wars without cause
Swim for these lost politicians
Who don't see their greed is a flaw"

Most people don’t know how to talk to others who are contemplating suicide.

They tell us we’re selfish.

They ask if we realize what it’ll do to our family.

They accuse us of doing it for attention.

And I understand--to an extent.

If you’ve never been pulled underwater from the absolute hopelessness of depression, you might think we can snap out of it.

But that’s not how our minds work.

It completely warps our brain, making it impossible to think rationally or logically at times.

At my darkest point, I could rattle off a hundred reasons why my family would be better off without me.

And, how could taking my own life be for attention if I was alone in my apartment?

I wore the guise of happiness in public, never showing anyone how much I hurt inside.

“The currents will pull us
Away from our love
Just keep your head above”

I remember lying on the bathroom floor of my apartment in Charlotte thinking…

I have tickets for a concert next week.

I don't even know what show. 

Because that's not what's important in this story.

“I found a tidal wave
Begging to tear down the dawn
Memories like bullets
They fire at me from a gun
Crack in the armor, yeah
I swim to brighter days
Despite the absence of sun

Choking on salt water
I'm not giving in
I'm not giving in
I swim”

I’m jolted by the memory of locking myself away in my bedroom as a kid—eyes closed, headphones on—getting lost in the music.

The lyrics. The bass line. The guitar riffs. The drum beat.

I remember how much I love the feeling of being at a live show.

And how it feels like the singer is belting out the songs just for me.

 “You gotta swim
Swim in the dark
There's no shame in drifting
Feel the tide shifting and wait for this spark
Yeah you gotta swim
Don't let yourself sink
Just find the horizon
I promise you it's not as far as you think”

I see the horizon.

I hear the waves against the shore.

I roll on to my stomach, grab the rim of the toilet, and pull myself onto my knees.

Then I shove two fingers down my throat, trying to bring up the pills.

But nothing comes up.

I crawl to the kitchen and fill a glass with water, chugging like my life depends on it.

I eat crackers I can barely choke down.

Then I crawl to me bedroom and fall asleep unsure if I’ll see the morning.

begging—for the first time in my life—that I failed at succeeding.

“Currents will drag us away from our love
Just keep your head above
Just keep your head above
Swim
Just keep your head above
Swim
Just keep your head above
Swim”

I still swim.

I may falter when the dark thoughts try to seep into my head and pull me under,

but I gasp and choke and spurt, until I regain my stride.

The horizon is constantly changing.

It’s getting my kids back on Friday afternoons. It’s seeing them smile at the most mundane things we do together.

It’s starting a new book. Seeing a concert. Dinner with a friend. A trip to the beach. A drive through the mountains.

It's very hard to retrain your brain. 

But I'm trying to do that every day.

The only person who can make me feel happy – and worthy of being in this world—is ME.

I may not be remembered for anything grand in history books a hundred years from now,

but hopefully I’ll be remembered by the people I touched

with Kindness. Love. Encouragement.

And that’s good enough for me.

Thank you to Andrew McMahon for writing this amazing song - the lyrics I used in the post. This song was written well after the events of July 2002,

but I love the message and the strength I get from this song. I hope you do, too. Have a listen.

From the album The Glass Passenger.