United We Stand

I undertook a thought exercise this week.

What would I say to my homeland if it were one of my friends who had just gotten back together with an abusive ex?

Here’s how it went…

It’s not your fault.

Incredulous people will ask how you didn’t see the red flags, the blatant lies, the overt actions against your very well being. They will say “Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time?” Those most heartless will tell you that everything you experience from the point on is your own doing.

But it’s not your fault.

No one is above this experience. There is no such thing as being too smart, too strong, or even too wise to be taken in by an abuser. Confidence degrades. Self-worth evaporates. Fears overtake. It happens to all of us. That’s when they sweep in.

They see your vulnerability and know how to use it. They promise to protect you from all that you fear. They put your broken ego back together with sticky tape. They carry an air of a better future. No one is immune to that caustic combination of desperate need and promised fulfillment.

All you did was believe it. Some part of you still believes it.

That’s not your fault.

Don’t waste energy being mad at the the part of you that got you into this situation. That will only create more fissures for them to crack open.

But…

Everything is going to get harder now. They are in your house. They are with you from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you close your eyes at night. They will tell you what to say, what to do, how to feel. They will offer you glimmers of acceptance and joy with one hand while chipping away at your foundation with the other. This precarious balance is what keeps you hanging on, for fear of falling into the abyss.

They will make you fear things you never feared. They will make you hate things you never hated. They will keep you from the things love and may even rob you of them entirely. But know that they do this because what they fear most are the thoughts, feelings, passions and ideas born from within your soul, because they cannot control them.

They are your greatest weapon.

I won’t tell you how horrible this is. The words would be meaningless until you’re able to see that for yourself. I won’t pull you away from this situation. Even if there was a cage keeping you from it, the need for it wouldn’t leave you until you’re able to walk away on your own. But I am still with you.

I will commiserate your loses. I will applaud your triumphs. I will waste no energy on judgment. I will help you rebuild yourself. I will remind you of your inner weapons.

I will be with you when you win this battle.

Artwork “America’s Nightmare” by Pure Evil - Photo “Intentional Reflection” by Margaret M MacDonald

Three Simple Syllables

I recently deleted a comment I made on Facebook.

It was not insulting or inflammatory. It was nothing controversial or salacious. It probably wouldn't have even sparked discussion let alone debate. I had simply observed an oddity in an image a friend posted. This oddity had nothing to do with them. They had not created it nor were they likely to know who had. They could neither change it nor did it bear any consequence to them. Pointing it out achieved nothing, so I erased my comment.

Not long before that, I composed a blog post and decided not to publish it. The post was well written (of course) and contained witticisms about an annoyance that I have no doubt many people can relate to. A good vent is healthy, a literary one even better, but once it's out of your system need it exist any more? If the opportunity to educate those responsible for said annoyance presents itself, I will gladly use a clever turn of phrase to help them better their ways. But posting what was essentially a one way discussion felt fruitless, so I chose not to.

In both of these instances, I found myself asking a pointed question. What does this contribute?

The word itself seemed to smack me out of stupor...

Contribute.

I was never one to post comments or actively fuel the flames of online debate, because I always thought it encouraged too much impulsive negativity, no matter the topic. I decided to actively avoid even looking at, let alone sharing, anything born from ignorance, xenophobia, or hatred of any ilk. In a world where views legitimize perspectives, I refuse to give such things my eyeballs.

And then I realized that what I was refusing to do for the hordes of hatred was exactly what I needed to do for the passion driven waves of positivity.

Contribute.

I, like many people in the face of what I have come to call the luditrocities of our world, have been struggling to figure out what I can do to better any aspect of it. I mean really, what it the actual $%*#! can any of us do?! When the most recent anvil dropped upon our already cartoonishly flattened skulls (or have there been several since?) I opted to take a step back and say to myself you'll figure it out.

I saw the many calls to arms going out to all the artists in the world to use their arts to speak out, to share their perspectives, to educate, to generate empathy, to open narrow minds. I'm a true believer in the power of art. But the more I saw those reminders the more I thought yes, I know... but how?

And the answer was so simple.

Contribute.

So, as we enter this new year in this seismically unstable world I resolve to do one simple thing.

Contribute.

Image thanks to @schulzmuseum

The Loney Art of Self Promotion

People have wondered, asked, and occasionally assumed that the stress, trepidation, and seeping ooze of anxiety I experience when putting my work out into the world has to do with the scrutiny that follows. “Are you worried about what people will think?”

Unusual as it may seem, I'm not. I know that when someone reads, watches, listens, or engages with something I've created, opinions will naturally form and surface, whether I like them or not. I put my work forth knowing that I have thrown absolutely everything that I had at the time into its creation. Whether or not someone enjoys what I created, is completely subjective and entirely out of my hands.

So, what does put knots in my neck, wake me up in the middle of the night, produce ludicrous narratives in my head and tremors in the pit of stomach? Trying to get people to even pay attention to my work to begin with a.k.a. self-promotion.

Artwork in background “Dread” by Dan De Nardis

Self-promotion is being the kid who brought a magic rock to show and tell, the kid who knows for certain that the rock is magic but that the magic only works when you're alone with it and trying to convince a room full of your snickering peers that they would see it too if they just tried.

Self-promotion is sending out the pretty invitations to your party, then spending every day in its lead-up haunted by visions of being by yourself in your fiercest outfit, listening to your own playlist while eating your own artfully arranged crudité platter.

Self-promotion is entering an overcrowded room where everyone is already in the midst of loud conversation, if not full-on arguments, and stepping up onto a pedestal, not because you want to but because you were told that was the thing to do. It's trying to draw everyone's eyeballs toward that pedestal, while ignoring all the whispers of “What makes her think she's special enough to be on that pedestal?” You want to shout that it wasn't your idea, that it's not about you, but the same voices that told you to get up on that pedestal also said never talk yourself down, never sell yourself short. They told you that letting even a hint of self-doubt slip into your sales spiel was a slippery slope to abject failure. We are what we manifest, right?

Chances are, when you see anyone you know up on that pedestal shouting out “Look I made a thing!” they're feeling the same way. They're experiencing the rising nausea, fighting through the fumbles in speech and sudden pauses in thought. They're so worried about that last thing they just said that they have no idea what they're saying now. Is there spinach in my teeth? Wait, when was the last time I even ate spinach?

They need your help.

Attend their gallery openings. See their plays. Read their books. Go to their gigs. Get tickets to their films. Buy their unique creations.

Maybe, like many people I know, you're thinking “I want to, but I don't have the time or the money for all that.” Then use the systems that bring art so readily into your life, to elevate the artists that are so often left behind by them. It takes fifty reviews before Amazon will start recommending a book to likely readers. It takes one thousand streams on Spotify before a musician can start to earn the fractions of a cent they get per play. Every streaming service you have doesn't just recommend what you might like, it recommends the already most watched and highest rated of what you might like.

Write the reviews. Play the songs. Dig three or four layers deep into your steaming menus. I guarantee you there are diamonds in that rough. Hit like. Write a comment even if it's just to increase their number. Tell everyone you know who might like what you've discovered that it exists.

To the person on that pedestal, it all feels like getting a “Good Job” sticker from your favourite teacher. It helps them to forget their nerves and remember why they were so excited to create the thing in the first place. It brings the fun back into show and tell. It fills that party with joy and laughter. It makes that pedestal a lot less lonely.

Artwork in background “Dread” by Dan De Nardis