Jo Buckman » A bit more personal

WHY YOU’RE NOT AS PRODUCTIVE AS YOU EXPECTED DURING QUARANTINE…

July 26, 2020

It’s okay. Me neither. Apparently productivity and pandemics don’t go that well together.

Who knew?

I returned from my Back to the Body Retreat throbbing with renewed sexual energy, and a new-found body confidence…

Just in time for the world to completely shut down.

Great. Now I had all these hot erotic ideas and sexual energy with no where and no one to put it on. I tinkered a bit with some online sexy shenanigans but that just added to my frustrations…

Acceptance in a zombie apocalypse (and other stories)

April 1, 2020

I always thought an apocalypse would be fun. High stakes. High adrenaline. The mere fight for survival taking priority over all other things. Like rent. Laundry. And earning a stable income in the creative arts.

I have, at times, secretly prayed for a zombie apocalypse.

The opportunity to test my survival skills (which I suspect are nowhere near the level of the cast of The Walking Dead), unleash my pent up anger on lifeless human-like beings with impunity, and perhaps snag a handsome, smart, ruggard hero in the process, seems so romantic.

But because this isn’t TV, and this isn’t really an apocalypse, what I’m left with – and I’m sure I’m not alone in this – is a lot of fear around health and future economic stability. With no real end in immediate sight.

The light at the end of the tunnel seems a long, long way away right now. For us all.

Now I’m mostly at home, with just me, my head and my cat. Which as I’ve previously mentioned, is not always great for me. On one level, I am used to it – I’m a writer and I mostly work from home, so I’ve got a few tricks in dealing with it.

Honestly, one of my favorite things to do is wake up, reach for my laptop and write in bed – before I even shower, eat, check emails or brush my teeth. I seem to write better when I’m dirty and smelly.

But this is Stay-At-Home/Quarantine thing takes it to a new level. In the past couple of days, I’ve gotta be honest, no matter how much I love working from home, it’s gotten a bit rough. I’ve mostly got a handle on how to avoid mindlessly snacking (except when I don’t), I’ve got a fairly good routine (except when I don’t), so what I’ve mostly been left with is the FEAR.

How am I going to pay rent next month? How am I going to continue to progress my career? What should I focus on? What about my future? My head wakes up roaring with fear and anxiety. And what that looks like for me is often a lack of focus, or putting my energy into the wrong things, and then later in the day, exhaustion and self-berating for not getting done the huge list of things I set out to accomplish that day. The more anxious I get, the less productive I am, the more un-productive I am, the more anxious I get.

It seems weird that I can burn out when I’m just kinda knocking about the house and not accomplishing a lot, but I assure you I can. And I have.

Fear, worry and anxiety are exhausting. And for me, counter-productive.

They’ve stopped me from being honest, from following my gut instincts, from taking the right action, from focusing on what’s important and they would (if I let them) continually corrode my self-esteem and productivity.

So now I’m stuck in my house and head – how do I combat my anxiety?

ACCEPTANCE. I focus on acceptance. This is the situation right now. I can’t change it. Wishing it was different, being worried about what’s going to happen, isn’t going to help. I need to accept it. Along with acceptance comes the realization I’m not alone. A lot of us are in the same boat. I have people I can call. I have people I can Zoom with. I can go for walks and runs.

STAYING PRESENT. Most of my anxiety and fear is based in the future. The events I’m most afraid of haven’t even happened yet. So I try and focus on staying in the present. It’s hard to trip about the future, if your brain is where your hands and feet are. So sometimes, if I’m really, really anxious and I don’t want to wake the cat, I will literally talk to my hands. Out loud. What can you see, Jo? A window. With blinds. A slightly dirty laptop monitor. Where are your hands right now? On my keyboard.

Getting my brain back in the present, stops the cycle.

GRATITUDE. I go for a walk in the morning and I look around. It’s a beautiful day. The sun’s shining. There are some really pretty houses. When I get home, my cat’s sprawled on the grass, dozing. He purrs when I call his name – before I even pat him. He’s happy. I’m happy, he’s happy. Right now, in this moment, I take some time to be grateful for what’s right in front of me. Even if it seems tiny, simple, and furry.

I get out of my head by helping someone with theirs.

REACHING OUT. Some of my friends are more anxious than me right now. I can’t take away their reasons, but I can be supportive. I can reach out. I can ask what I can do to help. I can text and call them and let them know they’re not alone and there are people who care about them. I look for opportunities I can be of service (added bonus: I can do it without necessarily having to put on pants).

I even have a sticky note on my laptop to remind me.

My daily reminder

THIS TOO WILL PASS. It will. I have to remind myself though, or I’ll forget. But one day soon, the doors to all our houses will burst open, and we’ll swarm like spawning salmon to the parks, beaches, streets and restaurants to reunite with loved ones. Until then, I got things to write. See you on Zoom.

Writers that Zoom together, write together – with @ardenpryor

It’s been 312 Friday nights without booze…

March 5, 2020

312 Friday nights. 72 months. 6 years. Without booze. Pills. Anything “fun”. CONTINUOUSLY.

There was a time, a bit over 6 years ago, when I couldn’t imaging getting through a Friday night without drinking. I didn’t think I one of those “alcoholics” – I didn’t drink in the morning, I had work, a roof over my head. I had all my teeth. I told myself I didn’t drink during the week – on school nights. The truth was school nights were becoming less and less frequent. Annoying things – like missing the early train home or a surly friend – were happening more often and they required a few glasses of wine to take the edge off. Still, I kept it pretty even during the week.

But come Fridays, all bets were off.

By 4pm, I’d be twitching in my office swivel chair. If I didn’t have plans and no one had texted me by 4:27pm (exact times made me seem desperate), I’d whip out a flurry of texts, “Wanna meet at the local for a few after work?”, “up for a drink? ” or “thirsty?”. It didn’t matter if it was that arrogant lawyer guy who never shut up, or my roommate who had just got a new girlfriend and wanted to go home. I just wanted someone – ANYONE – to “let off steam” with. And so my Friday nights went off.

I’d frequently come home as birds started chirping. Sometimes not at all – there were a few strange and awkward Saturday mornings on strange floors, couches and the odd bed. But this was single me having fun! I was enjoying my new found freedom! If I was doing the walk of shame at noon on a Saturday, that was the definition of success! I was a boring failure if I was home by 1am the night before.

But eventually, what happened is that my drinking buddies would want to go home early. After only a couple. Or they would get hungry and want to go to dinner – instead of just staying in the bar and drinking until it closed. And I didn’t. I wanted to keep going. And nobody seemed to be drinking as quickly or as much as me – or even wanted to. It was easier (and cheaper) to go home and drink how I wanted. And frankly, less embarrassing.

Most Saturdays I was too hungover to go out. To even stand up, if I’m being honest. I was starting to get a bit shaky by Saturday afternoons. Even a bit paranoid. Sundays I’d wake up and the sheets would be drenched with sweat – probably withdrawal. My hair was falling out. I’d stopped eating because I got drunk quicker and I weighed about 120lbs.

But I was still convinced that Friday nights were fun.

When I first decided to try this not drinking thing and get some help, it was a Tuesday. Some guy had made a crack about us being “functional alcoholics” and without realizing it, he’d hit a nerve. For some reason, I didn’t drink the rest of that weekend. Or Monday. But Tuesday, my one remaining real friend dumped me with a card in the post and it was 11am and I wanted a drink. And I somehow knew if I picked up a drink, I wouldn’t put it down and I didn’t want to pick it up.

So I went looking for help. Not really to stop altogether. Just some tips to control it and learn how to stop after a few. Then they told me it would mean not starting at all. That I couldn’t stop once I started, so it was best not to start at all. I told them there was no way I was giving up drinking forever. They said, I didn’t have to. It was just for today.

I thought they were crazy.

Of course I’m not going to drink today! It’s Tuesday! It’s a school night!

But what about Friday night? How was I not going to drink on Friday nights for the rest of my life?

Then they told me, I didn’t have to not drink every Friday night. I could just not drink for this Friday night.

That first Friday night without anything was sooooo weird. My flatmates weren’t home. It was quiet. And I was alone. Edgy. Tired, but restless at the same time. I paced. I jitter-ed. Then I got so anxious and wound up by the thought of how pathetic my life was going to be without alcohol, I got emotionally exhausted and I was asleep by 9pm (which just reinforced how boring life was going to be without booze). But I didn’t drink.

That first Saturday morning I woke up sober was a revelation.

I made it through an entire Friday night without drinking! I might be able to do this thing for a while! And a week later I made it through a second Friday night. Something I hadn’t done since I’d started drinking at 17 (baring the odd illness).

I had no idea simply “not drinking” would change my life as much as it has. I honestly thought people who didn’t drink were boring. I felt sorry for them. But seriously, it’s the best and most fun thing that’s ever happened to me. It has to be, otherwise I wouldn’t keep doing it.

I wake up in my own bed. I remember conversations. I’m present. I have fun. I still go out. I prefer rustic pubs to night clubs. I prefer those small back rooms with bad 80s where you and your girlfriends can daggy dance around your handbags.

I don’t wake up with this impending sense of doom and desperate loneliness. I do things on weekends with friends. Real ones. We have beach days. We go surfing. Camping. Go to the movies. 18 months ago, I got my PADI certification and went scuba diving (my life long dream).

Got up at 4am on a Saturday to do this. That used to be when I was going to bed.

It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve had people I love die. I’ve met people in recovery, come to love them, then watched them pick up and spiral back into self-destruction and struggled to let them go. I’ve dealt with depression. Last year I celebrated 5 years of continuous abstinence and the next day I was fired from a new job.

It’s not easy coming home after a bad day and

having nothing but your wits to take the edge off

But I’ve had to learn how to deal with anxiety and self-soothe better these days. I’ve also learned how to avoid getting into situations that cause anxiety in the first place. For instance, I’ve learned that I’m worried or scared about asking my boss something and I put it off, it’s likely going to bite me on the arse later, so it’s best to bring it up earlier – even if it is a bit uncomfortable. It’s funny that when I do, it’s never as bad I as think it’s going to be. If I deal with stuff earlier, then it doesn’t turn into this big monster that my head makes it. I exercise. I do things I love. I eat normally – most of the time.

I didn’t really mean to quit drinking for 312 Friday nights (and counting). But I’m so glad I did.

Upright and running on a weekend. Who knew this was possible?

Sitting Comfortably with the Uncomfortable

February 11, 2020

When author was eating ALL the feelings.

I have spent a lot of my life – most of my life – trying to avoid the uncomfortable.

I didn’t ask that question because I didn’t want to look like an idiot and have my boss yell at me.

I didn’t tell someone I was “dating” that I didn’t like the way he treated me because I was afraid he wouldn’t want to see me anymore (even though in hindsight, that would have been ideal because he was an asshole)

I didn’t have that conversation about my extreme, erratic (and sometimes self-destructive) behavior with my family because I didn’t want to hear how painful my behavior was for them to watch.

But the avoidance created an uncomfortable of its self. A gnawing anxiety/sense of (highly exaggerated) doom and dread that never really went away. It just kept growing and growing.

I spent a lot of time dampening those feelings with alcohol and pills. Perceived slights and problems became other people’s faults. If they didn’t like the fact that I was so drunk at a party I stripped off and jumped in the pool, that was on them – they were just wet blankets who didn’t know how to have a good time.

When I finally stopped drinking/using almost 6 years ago, my head got louder and louder.

The feelings of anxiety and doom generated by avoidance, and fear of outcomes that hadn’t happened, got so loud they almost became voices. They were a constant presence that moved into my head and were triggered by the slightest provocation. And everything was a provocation.

I once almost literally threw myself in front of a tram because I was convinced I was about to be fired from my job. This might have seemed reasonable if I was the CEO of Enron, but I was actually working as a telemarketer at the time. (Most people I know who worked as telemarketers wanted to kill themselves because they were telemarketers, not because they were going to get fired from it)

No wonder why I drank, right?

I knew that if I started drinking/using again, then it would only be a matter of time (maybe even days or hours) before I did literally throw myself into the path of an oncoming vehicle. So I sought other means of dampening the feelings. Alcohol, pills – anything that effected me from the neck up – was no longer an option for me. So this left me one viable option: FOOD.

I. Could. Not. Stop. Eating.

I had incessant, continual cravings for foods I never usually ate, 24-7. I once left a meeting 30 mins early because I was craving carrot cake so badly, I had to get to Coles before it closed. (They didn’t have carrot cake. I went to 2 more stores before I found it.)

I would eat entire 4 litre tubs of ice cream over the sink. In one standing.

My waistline was expanding at an exponential rate, but still the voices wouldn’t keep quiet.

So eventually I had to stop fighting them. And sit down with them.

I literally had to sit down on my living room floor with my feelings. I recognized I felt sad, angry, lonely, depressed (and now fat). It didn’t mean I was. I didn’t have to act on it. I didn’t have to self-harm, binge, engage with these self-destructive patterns anymore. If I sat with them long enough, they would pass.

It was a revelation to me. That I could feel things and not act on them. And that they wouldn’t kill me. I had spent so long trying to avoid them, I was sure they would. They seemed so scary. So big. Overwhelming. And UGLY. And yet, here they were. Not killing me. I was feeling miserable, but I wasn’t about to die from misery. Despite what Charles Dickens said.

So since then, two things have happened. One is: I’m much better at having uncomfortable conversations now. I tend to find that a bit of uncomfortable now saves a LOT of pain later. I can point out mistakes I’ve made, I can talk to my family, I can tell that guy to f**k off because I deserve better (and mostly believe it).

I can have a disagreement with someone and not have to instantly take responsibility and apologize to make them feel better, even if it’s not even my fault, which I used to do, because I couldn’t bear to sit with someone being mad at me.

I don’t spiral into future things that haven’t happened yet because thanks to all that wanky self-care I do , I’ve learnt how to be more present.

And there are days (around the same time every month or so) where the cravings hit and I eat too much, but I don’t destroy myself over it. (I’ve also learned not to keep large tubs of ice cream in the freezer for this precise reason.)

Sitting comfortablly with the uncomfortable

Most of the time, I can sit in the uncomfortable now.

Most of the time, I’m pretty normal.

For a quirky weirdo.

I was raised by a village… And I only just realized it

January 7, 2020

So if you’ve read my bio, you’ll know I was born in London, UK. My Mum (that’s “Mom” in American) was South African but moved to England to finish her medical residency (and get away from apartheid), which is where and when she met my very English Dad (that’s “Dad” in American) and they had me, and then my sister.

When I say I don’t really know where I’m from, I mean it.

When I was 8 years old, they divorced and my Dad moved to Toronto, Canada. My Mum, being sick of English weather (and by a miracle having survived 10 years of it), moved me and my sister to Brisbane, Australia. I could tell you she later married a Canadian who turned out to having being born in the same hospital my Dad once worked at, but this whole thing is probably confusing enough as it is.

UK Grandparents, cousins and sister pre-Australian immigration. (Author is bottom left)

As an immigrant, I was always envious of my friends who had external family – Aunts, Uncles, cousins – a stones throw away. Their life seemed to to be an endless whirlwind of informal visiting and eating – birthday parties, bbqs, engagements, weddings. Our family functions were much more sporadic – they were often years (sometimes decades apart), involved a long haul overseas trip, lots of planning, money and weeks of living out of suitcases, and was never on my birthday, so there were rarely presents involved.

Don’t get me wrong, these were wonderful trips – there were weeks of time with cousins, endless chats, adventures and new places to explore (plus of course the odd fight to keep things interesting). Added bonus: By the time I was 12, I was a pretty seasoned world traveler. The downside were the times in between. Christmases at “home” felt a little odd and empty.

For years I focused on the fact that I didn’t have this external family around me. I didn’t have an Aunt I could go to for tea and sympathy, or cousins I could I complain to.

(Honestly, it’s probably what made me a writer. I couldn’t figure out a way to connect with the world around me, so I lived inside my head.)

Except, I just realized, I actually did.

When we first arrived in Brisbane in the middle of a hot, humid summer, I was thrown into a local Catholic primary school. An odd choice considering I was not only un-Christened but had divorced parents (The deal my parents made was that if I was a boy, I was to be circumcised and Bar Mitzvahed, but if I was a girl, I would be Christened. However, despite receiving an engraved silver christening cup, my parents never got around to it).

I was damned to Hell on my first day in school.

Well if not damned, certainly in a weird purgatory. I was banished to back rows of the church and doomed to watch, with envious eyes, my classmates lining up to take the sacrament. Then disappearing, one at a time, into a dark corner booth to confess and be absolved of all their sins. For years, I wondered what that little wafer tasted like and what it felt like to have my numerous sins lifted off my chest with a few Hail Mary’s.

Sitting uncomfortably in that back pew at 8 years old is where I first met Ben. And later, by extension, his brother, Rene, and parents Jan and Roger. It turns out that Ben’s Dad, Roger, was also originally from Africa. And Ben was also un-Christened. And it also turned out, that like my Mum and stepfather, Ben’s parents liked doing all this outdoorsy stuff I’d never heard of – like canoeing, sailing and camping. (After 8 years of living in London, I barely went outside.)

Before I met Ben’s family, I’d only really seen camping on TV

Suddenly weekends were sailing on a handmade dingy, running up and down sand dunes, body-boarding or snorkeling. (Though it was seriously uncool to spend ones spare time hanging with the opposite sex, so Ben and I denied each other’s existence during school hours).

Circa late 80s

Over the years, our two families became increasingly intertwined. Inseparable even – Ben was even mine and my sister’s date to the formal (yes, it was like taking my brother). We met Roger’s brother and his wife, Jan’s family, Ben’s cousins, his grandparents, etc. We all spent so much time together, when Ben’s parents bought a yacht to live on, Ben and Rene came to stay with us for a while. Our biological external family always asked after Ben, Rene, Jan and Roger. By name.

1994 Formal (Prom). Ben on left, author on right.

And over the 35+ years, since I first met Ben, it has stayed that way. He got married, had kids (we were never really romantically involved). His brother got married had kids. My sister had a kid.

Now his parents have a house on Stradbroke Island. So Ben and his wife Chihiro wrangled their 2 kids, and I trailed along for a night on Stradbroke Island. And we walked in the door, with Jan offering Christmas Cake and tea, and Roger already lining up a game of Scrabble to cheat at. And we gathered around the table, laughing and chatting and I suddenly realized…

The years fall away…

I did have this external family all along. These are the people who helped raise me.

The people who helped raise me from left to right: Author (left), Jan, Author’s Mum, Roger

And it was like I’d never seen it before.

Ben and Me 2019

I like to think Ben’s family is better than family in some ways. Your biological family technically has to like you – it’s harder to denounce blood. Ben’s family – they like me anyway. Even when they don’t have to. When I needed a place to crash, I always had a bed. When I was a drunken mess, they never shunned me or stopped inviting me to parties (though I’m sure they hid their booze!). They always accepted me for who I am/was and were just simply there. They’re the family I/we didn’t get born with, but somehow got chosen for me. For us.

I can’t believe it took me 36 years to figure this out…

P.S This is not in anyway to suggest my biological external family isn’t all kinds of awesome – they are and they know it. It’s just they aren’t a stones throw away.

What Nobody Told Me About Grief

December 2, 2019

A lot of people around me have recently lost people they’ve loved or really cared about. So I thought I would share this Facebook post I wrote about dealing with grief after the death of my beloved, inspiring and wonderful Aunt, Jennie Buckman – What I wish I’d known about grief and all the things that came up that I wasn’t expecting. I’ve talked a lot about digging deep in writing and bleeding over the keys, so here’s some of mine. I hope if you’re grieving, this gives you some comfort. (By the way – Fuck. Shit. Wank. Bullocks was one of her favorite phrases – she said it frequently and often and always in that order):

Our tireless, fearless fighter, Jennie Buckman (right), average blog writer (left).

Fuck. Shit. Wank. Bollocks.

We have lost Jennie Buckman. Our champion. Our loving advocate. Our hilarious, frequent expletive using, passionate and fierce supporter. It’s a devastating and unfathomable loss to us all. So after some chats with my cousins and family, please allow me to share this (long-winded) post about death and grief and my experiences with it. Not because I want to make this about me, but because so many people around me are in pain and grieving right now, and we don’t talk about this process nearly enough.

I hope that, at best, this might provide some comfort, and at least, if you’re grieving, will help you feel less alone. Also, in the spirit of the late and great Jen herself, who was so upfront about her dying right until the end, I want to be a little upfront about the process of grieving here. So please take this in the spirit intended – just someone who has kinda been through it before, sharing with someone who might be majorly going through it now. Also, this is in no way aiming to minimize or take away anyone’s grief. I honestly wish when this first happened to me, someone had been able to tell me some of this stuff, because I really would have been much kinder and easier on myself. Anyway, here goes…

It’s just going to be shit for a while.

This was the best advice I ever received. Hands down. It’s not your fault. You can’t get around it. You can’t avoid it. It is what it is. And it’s shit. How long for? A while. How long’s that then? Until it’s not shit.

Grief is bottomless, black, gaping hole

with ragged, raw and sharp edges that catch and bleed. At least that’s how it felt (feels) for me. Over time (a long time), the edges wear smooth and vines grow over the hole, so you can’t see it or feel it as much. Sometimes you even forget it’s there. But then, suddenly, something/someone inadvertently puts a finger right into that place– right into those overgrown vines – which aren’t a strong as they look – and they give way a little. And wow – there’s all that raw grief again. It never really goes away. But it kind of absorbs, and sinks in and becomes a part of you and new memories and bonds form over the top of it.

It’s your grief. It’s personal.

When my Dad died, I thought I shouldn’t really be feeling so sad, because it wasn’t like I lived with him or anything. We hadn’t actually talked for a month. Other people saw him more than me. They were closer. I kept thinking, I don’t have a right to feel like this. All that did was make me feel bad about feeling sad. I eventually realized that none of that mattered: I simply really fucking missed him (Still do – always will). And I couldn’t change the way I was feeling. And it didn’t matter how far apart we were or how much closer others were, he was still my Dad and I was still grieving. You are completely entitled to feel how you feel. Your grief is real, understandable and 100% legitimate. There is no right or wrong way to feel or a set amount of time before you should feel better.

How I didn’t self-destruct from grief

So for me, the tricky part then, was not acting on these sad feelings in my typical self-destructive ways (and also doing it without resorting to alcohol which is not an option for me anymore). So that meant I had to do things to really try and stay in the present so I didn’t spiral into dark, sad and depressing past or future places, full of regrets and empty hopes. I used mindfulness mediation, I talked to myself a lot, I talked to my hands a lot. A LOT – anything to stay in the present. Where are your hands? On my keyboard. What are they doing? Typing. What letters? T-Y-P-I-N-G. What does your keyboard look like? It’s silver. There’s food stuff or something between the Y and the H keys. The black bit of the Spacebar bit is flaking off…

3-5 mins of “Meds” everyday

I also meditated for like 3-5 mins every day (still do – I call it “meds”- it sounds less wanky). Anyway, I would do “meds” a couple of times a day if I needed to. It doesn’t have to be an hour and half a hilltop with chanting goats, gongs and bells. For me, I just needed to get my brain out of that dark pattern of thinking and I did that by forcing it to stay in the present and looking at what was directly in front of me. Nothing else. Just what was directly in front of me and whatever I had to deal with at that particular moment. I honestly couldn’t deal with anything beyond that.

See People – Even When I Didn’t Want To

I also had to make an effort to be around people – even when I wanted to completely isolate. Even when I was so heavy with grief I could barely stand up or speak. I knew I couldn’t trust my head alone and unsupervised. So I would literally go to coffee with people and just sit there and not speak (Not because I didn’t want to but because I actually couldn’t – it took too much effort). And if people around me spoke to me, they were lucky if they got a nod. But they knew. And they understood. Because they were my friends and they loved me. Even when I felt so sad and depressed, I couldn’t understand how anyone would want to be around me or could possibly love me.

Warning: Grief has physical side effects

The PHYSICAL aspect of Grief. I wasn’t prepared for the physical effects of grief. I didn’t expect to have days where I would be so tired, so heavy with it that I could barely stand up. Or that my body would also respond to the additional stress by developing bladder infections (which I hadn’t had since I was a child). It might be different for you, but don’t be surprised if this amount of emotional stress has some sort of physical impact on your body.

It’s a rollercoaster.

And sometimes all you can do is hang on. Some days I felt like a sobbing mess. Some days I almost felt normal. Then some days, I felt normal but then I would knock over a glass of water, someone would say something I didn’t like (which was usually innocuous and harmless) and I would either break into hysterics or snap angrily. Generally, I like to think, I’m a fairly level-headed person. So when these outbursts happened, and especially when I had been feeling so normal moments before, I got really worried. Scared even. Maybe I was having some sort of breakdown? Until someone explained to me that I was going through a huge emotional trauma. If my stress levels were a bottle of soda for example, then normally, the bottle would only be ¼ full. But now, my base stress levels were ¾ full. So any additional “normal” stress was adding to my already ¾ full bottle, shaking it up and making it overflow. Ah. Wish someone had told me that before…

What happens when you start to feel normal again…

About a month or two after, I started to feel really normal again. So normal in fact, I actually forgot that my Dad had died for a minute. The shock had worn off. I was upright more often and mostly back to my regular routine. And one day, I was walking down the street and suddenly had this thought, “I haven’t spoken to Dad for a while. I should call him”. Then this small part of my brain was like, “Yeah, there’s a reason you haven’t. What was it? I can’t remember, but it’s really important. Is he travelling again? What was the reason?”. And then suddenly – “Oh that’s right. He’s dead”. And it was like he’d died and I’d lost him all over again. Fuck.

The Self-Talk

The self-talk. I am my own worst enemy. I had all these expectations about how I should feel. What I should be capable of and when by. I shouldn’t still be sad after x number of days/weeks/months. I should be over this by now. I realized I was telling myself things like, “You shouldn’t be feeling like this today, what’s wrong with you? You have x, x and x going on in your life. You have so much to be grateful for. Why aren’t you grateful? You should feel happy. You’re crazy/stupid/lazy”. And it’s true. I did have a lot to be grateful for. I was grateful. I just didn’t feel grateful. I just felt sad. But telling myself how I should feel and beating myself up for it, didn’t help how I did feel. In fact, it was quite the opposite – it just made me feel worse. So I had to change the way I spoke to myself. It took a lot of practice because I’d been beating myself up for a very long time.

But eventually, it became, “Jo, you’re a bit sad today and you know what, that’s okay. But you know, you have work to do today, so how about we just go to work and see what we can do? And you know, if it takes you a bit longer to do something that’s okay, and if you need to take lunch earlier, fine. You’re really fucking sad today, so let’s just acknowledge you’re really fucking sad today, and put that to one side. Don’t ignore it, just put it to the side and let’s go about our day as best we can”. Once I allowed myself to acknowledge how I felt, I could accept it, and then it just kind of rode itself out in time (with some help – I did go to therapy for a while, that helped a lot too. There is no shame in seeking and getting help however and whenever you need it).

So anyway, I didn’t know this stuff about grief. I wasn’t ready for it. We never really are, are we? So if you’re grieving, then I hope this helps you a little. So as much as you’re blindsided by your terrible loss of a loved one, maybe you won’t be so blindsided by your emotional and physical reactions to it (if that makes sense) and will be able to go a bit gently on yourself. This unfathomable grief and loss you’re feeling – it sucks. It really fucking sucks. And nothing can take it away or make it better. But I want you to know, you’re not alone. And you are loved. And if you need to talk or reach out, I’m here. And if you just want to sit silently around other people, while they talk, then that’s absolutely fine too.

And I’ll end with this, death is also hard for those around us who don’t have a personal connection to the person we’ve lost, but care about us and maybe don’t quite know how to handle it (who does, really?). So if you’re in this situation, here’s what helped me: Just be there. Listen if I need to talk, be okay with silence or quiet if I can’t. You don’t have to be my counsellor. I’m not expecting you to take on my pain on as your own. You can’t. There’s nothing you can do to make this better. This pain will fade when it’s ready (it never really goes away completely – not really). You are as powerless over this thing as I am. What you can do is simply be there and given the circumstances, perhaps let go of any expectations you have as to what mood I’ll be in and what I’ll be capable of doing. I promise, I’m trying my best, but I may not be my usual ball of sunshine. And may not be for a while. So please, if you can be a bit patient and gentle, I’ll be back to normal in a while. I promise. Whatever “normal” is for someone like me or however long “a while” turns out to be under the circumstances.

And also, to everyone who knew and loved my Aunt, Jen – I am so deeply sorry for your loss. I like to believe she and Dad are up there somewhere – wherever awesome atheists go – holding court, upping each other’s jokes, arguing passionately, interrupting and talking over each other and generally causing some form of hilarious riot. But fuck. She was so loved and will still be so missed.

Fuck. Shit. Wank. Bollocks.

Location, location, location

October 14, 2019

I was at Costco on the weekend – something I usually try to avoid at all costs – and it was packed as usual. Teeming with dazed looking Dads, mission-charged Moms with long lists and determined expressions, huge families with frazzled parents (grandparents in tow) roping their multiple kids in as pack mules to maneuverer overfilled carts. Chaotic consumerism at its finest.

In the midst of it all, was this couple in their mid-30s standing next to a display of baby blankets. They were completely frozen – locked in their own world, oblivious to the impatient masses streaming around them. The man was leaning into the woman, hand on her arm and he was murmuring intensely. She was nodding. Fighting back tears. Her face immobile. Eventually, she gave a small smile, he squeezed her hand, gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and they slowly moved along. Neither of them, saw me watching. A private moment on display for everyone to see. But nobody did – they were also locked in their own worlds.

When I was battling a bout of depression (years ago now), I did a lot of my crying on public transport. For me, this was the perfect solution to the overwhelming sadness that needed to be expressed – I didn’t want to be a downer and constantly cry to my friends, but I also didn’t want to cry alone (interestingly enough, I don’t recall anyone ever asking me if I was alright).

Are you seeing where I’m going with this yet? My point is how much a particular location can add to and emphasize your story. Some people enjoy sex in public because of the risks involved in possibly getting caught. In the same way, two characters having a very private moment in public can also add dramatic tension to a scene. Will a kind stranger intervene? Will everyone notice? Will someone shame them for yelling at each other? Or do they lower their voices and lean in so no one can hear them?

A bigger location doesn’t necessarily mean a more dramatic scene either. A confined location can equally add tension. I’ve been stuck in a car at the Mexico border, with someone in the passenger seat consistently screaming angrily at me. For hours. People in neighboring cars occasionally glanced over with curiosity, but no one intervened. I had no escape and no way of getting them out of my car. I just sat there with tears rolling down my cheeks, waiting for them to get tired and stop. Normally, in any sort of argument, I could walk away. Or kick them out of the car. But not this time. In this instance, the setting (my car at the Mexican-US border) added another layer of tension to an already volatile situation and I was trapped by circumstance. When you write a scene, think about how the location or setting can add tension or emphasize the general theme of your story. (Another good example is the fight scene in the elevator in Captain America: The Winter Soldier – just don’t write a spec script with a bunch of characters stuck in an elevator – it’s such an overused device these days).

Anyway, that was a little insight my recent trip to Costco brought me. The resultant slow-cooker pot roast turned out pretty good too (totally worth it).

Now let’s write.

I have this disease called… DEBBIE.

September 29, 2019

Ass Sagging Prevention - New York style

So this blog is a bit more personal than what you’re used to. Since I talk a lot about how as a writer, it’s important to write from the heart and be authentic, I thought I would actually put my money where my mouth is (and against some recent advice). But I want to be more open and I want to talk about this stuff. Because to me, this is where the good writing comes from. From being able to talk about the hard stuff in a palatable way.

So I have this disease called… DEBBIE. Debbie Downer. You might know her as depression. I’ve given her a name because I’m beginning to understand that even though she feels like she’s part of me, and even though she feels real, she’s not. She’s not real and not a part of me at all. In my 20s, she was a fairly consistent presence in my life, but in the past 20 years or so – particularly since I stopped drinking – she’s been rather quiet and well behaved. Up until the last few months or so that is. Then she came back into my life with an unexpected vengeance.

Debbie likes to live behind my right orbital socket, just behind my temple. She likes to distort my perception of reality by telling me things like, “I should have done a better job”, “I’m not worth being paid for work”, “I’m not a good friend”, “I’m not that funny”, “I can’t write at all”, “I’m not worth paying for writing”. She is a constant voice in my head that takes the small negative inklings and amplifies them to LOUD SHOUTING level, overwhelming my rational brain and drowning out any positive reinforcement I receive from the outside world.

So powerful is my Debbie, that she can even take any positive reinforcement (no matter how strong) and twist it into a negative. To: “Jo, thank you so much for fixing that problem for me”, Debbie will reply, “Yeah, but Jo why the hell didn’t you spot that earlier and fix it months ago, you moron?”. Nothing good you have to say to me, will ever be taken at face value by Debbie. In my 20s, she took me to some dark and scary and painful places that took me a long time to crawl out of. In fact for a good six months, I didn’t know she was there at all. I thought I was just doing terribly at everything I did. She’s dark. Twisted. Insidious. And very, very, clever.

Drowning out Debbie is exhausting. My rational brain doesn’t have the strength to shout her down without professional help. Self-medicating is also not an option for me. So I’ve had to learn other methods to deal with her. One of the first things I did was give her a name. (And please if you are a real dear friend of mine called Debbie or Debra, please know this isn’t personal, YOU are not a downer). In recovery, one is often told to name their disease. I took it literally. Giving my depression a name has helped me distance myself from it and draw a more defined line between what’s real and what’s not. Like I said, she feels very real. She seems very real. And the way she makes me feel is very real. The things she tells me are not.

So now I talk to my depression. I tell her things like, “I know that’s how you see it, Debbie, but let’s take a step back and see how it really is. Jo, if you were really so lousy at what you do, would people still be hiring you? If you were such a bad friend, would anyone bother calling you?”. And then I practice mindfulness. I acknowledge that right now at this present moment I am feeling overwhelmed/teary/sad/however. Then I say to myself, “Okay, that’s how you feel. It’s okay to feel this way. Let’s just put this to the left side of our brain and go on with our days as best we can, okay?”.

My self-talk is my biggest enemy, so what I try to do now is talk to myself as if I was a good friend. Instead of beating myself up for perceived failures, not doing good enough, and not feeling good enough to do better, I acknowledge and accept the present. I try to avoid telling myself (and Debbie) how I should be feeling. Telling myself how I should be feeling and beating myself up for not being able to function better, only makes it worse. When I look back on how bad Debbie has beaten me down in the past, the fact that I’ve been able to function at all is a miracle in itself.

I’ve also sought help. My stepfather always said the world would be a better place if everyone had therapy and a massage once a week. And he’s right. Debbie exists in a vacuum. She’s much less vocal when I talk about her others and share my experiences – which is completely counter intuitive.

I meditate (I hate admitting this out loud, it always sounds wanky to me but there I admit it, I meditate. It helps me stay centered and focus). I exercise (the bare minimum. I hate the gym. I only go to stop my ass sagging). I eat pretty healthy (except for when I don’t).

And gradually, Debbie is becoming less vocal and less powerful. I doubt she’ll ever go away for good, but she is definitely not a persistent part of my life anymore.

So what does all of this have to do with writing? So the positive thing about Debbie is that this has given me some understanding of a mental illness and how it impacts individuals and those close to them. It gives me more empathy towards others who are fighting similar battles (and the tragedy of those who lost to it). It gives me more to draw from and channel into my writing. And I hope that when I write scenes or stories involving characters who are struggling with an issue themselves, that it will sound authentic and resonate with those who are reading.

And, very selfishly, writing about Debbie and sharing about Debbie is also cathartic.

Anyway, if this did resonate with you, feel free to reach out to me.

I’m going for some ass sagging prevention now.

Just bleed.

August 10, 2019

Are we bleeding yet?

“Writing Is Easy; You Just Open a Vein and Bleed” – Red Smith

Just bleed. Dig deep. Give that uncomfortable conversation you never had to your characters. Make your main character yell that painful, honest truth that you’ve never had the courage to say out loud. Bare your soul on the page. Go deep. Be fearless. Doesn’t have to be depressing. Doesn’t have to be serious. The deepest darkest truths can actually be hilarious when you put them on a page and give them to a quirky character to speak. Yes, bleeding your heart out over your keys is difficult. But this is where the universal truth of writing comes from. This is why I write.

IRL I’m kinda funny. Quirky. People tend to view me as someone who’s witty, upbeat, who has their shit together and is relatively stable (apart from my mildly unhealthy Star Wars obsession). I don’t often get emotional and lose my cool. That said, I do feel things. I have all the feels and unlike many people, I don’t have the ability to use the usual tools to drown them (like booze or Xanax). I have to do things – like sit with them. And fricking meditate. Anyway, I digress. The thing is, I wasn’t one to share my feelings openly. And as a result, for a long time, people found it hard to get to know me and vice versa. I thought the way I felt and viewed the world was entirely unique, and I felt very lonely. Then this thing happened. I took what I felt and how I saw things and I started writing.

And eventually this got layered into a story that became a script. And I showed it to the world. And this weird thing started to happen – first with friends and family and then with incredibly smart, talented people in various production companies and agencies – people related to my script and started to share their own very personal experiences with me. I discovered my feelings were actually universal. By putting a bit of my blood on the page, I’d (without realizing it) given other people a chance to open up too and helped them feel a bit less lonely. I’d given us both a bit of validation. And I suddenly felt a little less crazy in this crazy world. It was/is such a gift. (This is not to say that I think my writing is life changing or anything, I’m just pointing out that by me being vulnerable through my writing, I’d unwittingly allowed other people to be vulnerable too).

Truth be told, I don’t get people who say writing is easy. To me, it might start that way. And then it gets hard. Is this scene boring? What is this character struggling with? What does she/he really want to say but doesn’t? I also have this tendency that I’ve only just become aware of to subconsciously break dark moments with humor instead of letting them play out. Truth be told, I’ve been doing this my whole life. Then there’s structure – it’s vital. You gotta have it. But you gotta make the script refreshing enough that it’s entertaining and surprising, but not so out there that you literally don’t lose the plot. That stuff right there, is hard enough. Now layer in characters that need to be real and relatable – complexity, themes, etc. It just gets harder. But like most things in life, the hard stuff is the most rewarding. And that’s why you/I need to bleed. That’s where the good stuff is. Consider this blog the leech-pin to good writing. So stick a knife in your fingers and start bleeding…

Category: A bit more personal

It’s okay. Me neither. Apparently productivity and pandemics don’t go that well together.

Who knew?

I always thought an apocalypse would be fun. High stakes. High adrenaline. The mere fight for survival taking priority over all other things. Like rent. Laundry. And earning a stable income in the creative arts.

“Writing Is Easy; You Just Open a Vein and Bleed” – Red Smith