This is a work in progress.

What I want to talk about here is the hard stuff.

In my grandpa's old office there was a painting of the famous Depression era clown Emmett Kelly with a rose in his hand. Emmett Kelly was known as the sad clown. Dressed in homeless garb, in the painting he has a face of the most sincere humility and sadness
I asked Grandpa, "why is the clown sad?"
Clowns were laughing creatures.
Grandpa told me that the clown was in love and he was begging for the one he loved to return to him.

This is my picture of the hard stuff. The most concrete image of sad I have in my memory.

"And many rains turn to rivers
Winter's here
And there ain't nothing gonna change
The winds are blowing telling me all I hear
Oh it's a funny time of year
There'll be no blossom on the trees"
 -Beth Gibbons song Funny Time of Year

Winter is a funny time of year when the hard stuff comes up the most strong and the mind finds itself hibernating in the dark caves. Old injuries stiffen like artritic hands inside wool mittens. There is an ache but it's not the kind of hurt you can say "ouch."

I heard it dropped on a World Have Your Say episode asking, "Is Happiness a Natural State?" - Thomas Kempis said, "the proper sorrow the soul."

I read Doris #15 which is called "Antidepression Guide," and Cindy tells us, "There is nothing wrong with a little depression. It is a reasonable response to this fucked up world and you don't need to hide it or deny it.."

Part of being sad is an allowance for the sadness and a recognition of it's force and the struggle with finding a balance.

I call it "the hurt."

Artist Adam Gnade refers to it as the Big Motherfuckin' sad.
When I was a teenager I felt like I wasn't in control of anything. My grades were always shaky and my parents were concerened about the people I hung out with. I spent a lot of time struggling to learn and negotiating to be with the people I liked.
Late at night I would take walks when everyone was asleep. Under street lights at the park I swung on the the swing set and listened to the sprinklers and looked at the stars. In those moments I took happiness into my own hands and tried to breathe joy where there was only fear and anger. On these walks no was around to judge me and in this way I fabricated my own antidote to the great sad.

A strong cup of coffee and two glasses of fresh orange juice are a good antidepressant. I took St. Johns Wort for three months is winter. I don't know if it did much but the mindfulness of taking an herb is saying "this pill will make things ok today," and maybe all I wanted was the reassurance.

Sometimes I feel trapped in my body. To be female is a working love.

During the Portland Zine Symposium at Portland State I fell into a Body Workshop. We did this activity where two people would sit in the middle of our circle and speak together about whatever they wanted. No one from the outer circle could speak and if they had something to add they would tap one of the people in the center and take their place. The conversation came around to mirrors and how everyone in the group felt it was hard to constantly be seeing themselves in mirrors.

There is a relationship between our outside and our inside selves. The hard part is when the inside and the outside disagree or the inside is critical of the outside. Our bodies don't look the way we feel inside.

In the Body Workshop we did an exercise where we closed our eyes and were guided through a meditation where we touched parts of our body and felt them as a part of ourselves. "My feet my feet my feet," we whispered when told to touch our feet. "My knees my knees my knees," we whispered moving up our body. "My face my face my face my nose my nose my nose my eyes my eyes my eyes."

In a certain therapeutic classroom for infants to three-year-olds who are high risk for abuse and neglect they teach the children to feel safe in their own bodies. "I am picking up your body," the teachers say when they pick up the children.

I hurt less because I am not in school and living by myself. This is what is most important of all. And I know myself well enough to possess my own antidote. Knowing myself and understanding my feelings. Letting who I am be more important than the status quo.

Nosce te ipsum. With or without the great sad, the great tear and moan is to know oneself. It's the best rule to live by.

On a walk Max and I talked about the great sad. Max, the rock climber and traveler who hates philosophy but always makes exceptions for me. We wondered what it the was to talk about depression with friends and perhaps confirming in ourselves it was important to talk about.
We agreed it was important to have a way.
Maybe it feels friends are only good for laughing and talking about little trifles throughout the day but I think we agreed, the sad needed to be discussed because it was a part of us just as much as the laughs.

Sometimes all I want is permission to be sad. Friends are always around to make you laugh and dance and drink and make dinners but I want someone to give me permission to weep (sometimes, not all the time - sometimes I want someone else to hand me their list) and ask me what I need. Good friends will understand why if you tell them.

Max and I have both have had a great sad and it was nice to admit it to another. Sad together and sad apart. It's less lonely this way.

Sometimes nothing is good and everything is bad. Every person is miserable and stupid. There is only bad news. There is nothing right with the world. This feeling paralyzes me. I want to stay inside all day and I can't write zines.

Eventally this feeling is replaced and everything is good again and everyone is kind and interesting.

Sometimes just asking myself, "what do you need to be ok?" is all I ever need to open the possbilities to solving my sadness.

Cindy Crabb has a lot of important things to add where Max and I left off. There are a lot of good zines where depression is honestly and clearly stated without a lot of clinical riff-raff. A lot of people talking about their feeling and how they deal with them. People with chronic illness. Readings these helps a lot.
In a zine called "The Worst" zinesters get together to talk about their experiences with dealing with the trauma surrounded with having people you love die and also living with hurt.
She makes a list of "what you think you might need" during a hard time.

for me to come and hold you
for me to stay outside your door but play some music
for me to play music to you inside your room
dancing
for me to ask you questions
for me to just be near and silent
for me to hold your hand as you call your other family
to talk about the rest of the family
to go outside and scream
to go outside and talk and talk about anything but this death
to get away from here
go to a movie
distraction
acknowledgment
some kind of ceremony
to get the rest of the roomates out of the house
to get the rest of the roomates to stop giving you uncomfortable looks
to get people to stop trying to cheer you up

She writes: "circle what you think you might need. or write more. I want to be here for you. I want to be your friend."

I am still learning how to confront the grief in people I love. I disappear and think, "they don't want me to say anything. I should go away until things seem better."


"Looking back on this year I’ve had some rough spots and I’ve felt like dirt (a lot) but the Big Motherfuckin’ Sad has left me alone. I like that. I like being functional and I like having the Fight in me and I like not being incapacitated and deathly and pathetic... If anything, this year has been a year where I’ve fought and, coming into the 9th inning here, I feel good about where I’m at and where I’m headed. So a toast to the Fight. Here’s to knocking the Big Motherfuckin’ Sad out of commission and here’s to re-prioritizing the things you stress out over... We’ve been up against a wall and we deserve the good life."

Looking back on my year, I was fired last March and have walked around with a desperate smile on my face ever since - afraid of being knocked down again. Rejection. "In my 23rd year," I wrote in my journal, "I did not live a day hardly once. My heart was closed and that was damned shame." I am 24 now and ready trying to see with real eyes again.





An anti-sad concoction f

Let me speak in the parenthesis

There is this Robert Frost poem I posted awhile ago. It's the one with the birch trees bending under the weight of ice and how Frost speculates they bend because of a boy riding them to exhaustion. I like this poem - it has a relevance to my life. It's about loneliness and winter and choosing to believe in the fantasy rather than the reality.
There is this line across my palm which makes me smile. Lines across palms - they mean nothing, really. We are born with the lines on our palms and our way of clasping and gripping is predetermined and some believe the lines themselves can tell us things we always suspected about ourselves but didn't have the words for. ("Nosce te ipsum," - "knw thyself" in latin we often say cradling the prayer beads in our hands when the situtation has made us forget ourselves) Let me take a moment to explain.
The love line of my water hand empties like delta into the gap between my Saturn (middle) and Jupiter (index) fingers. When it comes to emotions, it says, I live in a fantasy world. So be it.

(There was once a girl who wrote a zine in this town, Bend, who drew pictures on her fire hand and xeroxed it for the cover of her publication. I liked this.)

Since declaring myself an atheist at fourteen I have carefully chosen new gods and picked through the mythos to create my own religion. That's what Frost is talking about - making our own stories, not listening to matter of fact Truth. You could say I am religious. I don't really want to get into it.


One day I want to own a brew pub in my house that is both a publishing house and a public house and I just call it, "Pub." There will be a few beers on draft made by my friends and bottles and everyone will drink beer and write zines together. There will be typewriters, desk space and a new drum in my xerox machine so everyone can make copies for a small fee. On Fridays we can host an event similar to The Moth Live Storytelling but not like a poetry slam. And someonehow my landlord and OLCC will not find out.

And then I realized. I have no role models.
I have no one to impress

Short icelandic story.

velkominn í hús mitt - welcome to my house

Húsið mitt er við ána. - my house is by the river

það er eitt við hliðina á birki tré. - it is the one next to the birch tree.

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. -robert frost

{veðrið orðinn óþolandi frá seint - the weather has become intolerable as of late

{{Afsakið mig, leyfa mér að þrífa þetta sóðaskapur - excuse me, allow me to clean this mess

Ef ég er í burtu, bíddu í hjólastóla - If I am away, wait in the barn

{ Komdu fyrir nóttina og við getum skiptast ferða sögur fyrir svefn - Come before the night and we can exchange travel stories before bedtime

Dear Scott #19

Dear Scott,
This picture looks like you.

-regards, Rachel

Imaginary Therapist

IT: Hello there, Rachel. How are you doing today?

R: Doing well.
IT: I really admire how you use the proper term "well" rather than "good" when answering my inquiry.
R: No problem. How are you imaginary therapist?
IT: I am doing well, thank you for asking. (pause) So why are we here today?
R: Maybe it's that I am working all day today. Maybe it is the impending reality that I am going to have, once again, nearly 23 days of non-working to look forward too - making me a little desperate and a little looked over. I am upset, and suddenly I am shifting gears. I thought everything was going to be okay, but it's not. Once again I have to struggle and this time in the winter. This time near Christmas.
IT: Are you saying you are upset because you won't be having enough money?
R: Yes! It's impossible! I just feel like I can't find the right place for me - I can't be settled and have things just work, I don't want to be an adult! (cries a little)
IT: (passes tissues) You sound like you are becoming regressive.
R: I am becoming regressive! My car broke down yesterday and my friend Erin helped and my Dad had all this advice and everything but what if my car breaks down?! How will I get to work? How will I go grocery shopping for work? How will I do anything? And I don't want to rely on anyone, because adults don't do that! They can take care of themselves.
IT: Okay, Rachel. You are getting a little shrill. Take a deep breath.
R: (takes deep breath)
IT: You know it's going to be alright.
R: I know (still upset). But it won't be alright. I feel like I can't talk to anyone without sounding like all those other people who whine to me about not having enough money. I hate hearing about how "broke" everyone is. We have such a high standard of living in this country, "broke" is such a pathetic nonexistent reality most of the time. I hate when people whine about being broke because they aren't broke! They have a nice car and a warm house. They have a good credit score and people to rely on and blah blah blah.
IT: Not to lecture you, Rachel, but you shouldn't act around what you don't like other people doing.
R: But it's true! There are so many people in my life that claim they have nothing when they have so much more than I do, they have things to rely on.
IT: Perhaps these people are having it hard, like you are. They are struggling with their own levels of financial strain. Regardless of someones current position they very could very well have the fortune of falling down a fiscal notch, and this is hard for most people to bear. Even you could fall down a economic notch.
R: Really? How much worse could it get than living in the least expensive apartment in Bend, driving a car I own that is about to crap out on me, and living pay check to pay check?
IT: It could be worse.
R: ... I feel really ashamed telling you all that. About my finances. It actually is embarrassing to me...
IT: I know. That's why you have me. An imaginary therapist and not a real one.
R: Right...
IT: Do you feel better talking a little about your money situation.
R: Not really. It's just embarrassing and I am ashamed I became specific.
IT: Do you want to talk about that shame?
R: It's only because I don't like sounding off like everyone else and getting so personal. ...
IT: Let's get realistic. You know how to lose weight? It's obvious. Eat less. Exercise more. You know how to save money - Spend less. Work more. Challenge yourself to spend a whole week without spending any money. Think: where can you make cuts? Is dumpster diving a viable option for Christmas gifts this year? Can you assemble things or steal things to pad you Christmas gifts?
R: How did you know Christmas weighed so heavily on my stress?
IT: Sadly, it does for everyone.
R: Why is that? It sucks.
IT: I know it does, but it's because people want the best for each other. The thing we give the most on Christmas is a state of comfort and a peace of mind. We give one another a finanical strain rather than something worthwhile.
R: Yeah... But my family isn't struggling so it's not fair that for the past 2 years I don't get them much. And I don't do enough. Adding to the shame I feel that I am the least successful member of my family and that whenever I need something from them I always feel their judgment. My dad lectures me whenever I talk finances and I feel they look down on me the same way I look at people who constantly talk about being "broke." (begins to become upset) I feel like a child who can't get it together. My mom always wants me to break down my spending and income and I hate doing that because she looks at it and tells me it doesn't make any sense why I live paycheck to paycheck. And my dad thinks he has all the answers. And I remember this time when I was unemployed and my sister went shopping and bought everything she wanted and I couldn't buy anything because I had fifty dollars in my bank account and it wasn't even mine. I feel like they don't understand and it makes me think that I don't even understand myself and why I am the way I am.
IT: You think you are destined to be poor. Like you are stuck in a perma-mind set where you will always live without the ability to generate money. (And I am not going to give you that crap about the state of being poor is "all in your head," and true "wealth" is spiritual and emotional. I know what you mean and it's strictly money. You feel you don't have money you don't have control.)
R: My dad always make these comments about my mom's family in Vegas, like they live this horrible low life. I feel living like that it is in my blood and I can't avoid it. I am a LEE therefore I am frugal forever looking for shoddy goods to fluff up hoping others won't realize I am poor. These comments and the view as my family as not making it have absorbed into my vision of who I am. It makes me feel like I am not in control. Like I am destined to have this life. I want to be rich! I want to have a car where when it breaks down I can call someone and yell at them because it's under warranty! I want to have a big luxurious house which is always warm with studio lighting and big high ceilings that make my heating bill unsustainibly high. No, I don't want any of these things. I don't know what I want.
IT: You just want the kind of inner power a person with money has.
R: Yeah, but what is that?
IT: In my opinion, it's something that doesn't exist. Well, it kind of exists. People will always call to yell at someone when they think they have been taken advantage of but this actually exposes their lack of power.
R: No, it doesn't.
IT: Yes, it does. You see, a person who really feels they have control of the situation, who is really powerful is the person who can logically call a tow truck and a mechanic and get things fixed. They don't need to yell. They yell because they imagine someone out their in the imaginary world has called them less than what they believe they are worth. These people know they are worth nothing, they know they are nothing but hot air and a massive debt. They know the personality empire they built around themselves, for themselves, and probably without deserving on the backs of people who likely will not see a reward - is just a fragile as the brittle pipe dream the very success is based on.
R: You sound bitter.
IT: This isn't about me.
R: ... rich people aren't bad. They suck, they are ruining the earth. But, excuses must be made. It's not all their fault. I just confessed an ardent wish to be wealthy because I want everything in my life to be working/functional, easy, and then I don't have to rely on anyone, can also get my family Christmas presents, and don't have to feel the stress of my fathers imaginary judgement.
IT: Do you want to say something in regards to your father?
R: Yes. My Mom and I were talking the other day. I was lamenting how his harsh and unrelenting judgment of myself and everything around himself affected me and she became upset. She told me that he is a hypocrite. She cleared things up for me. My Dad is a hypocrite. He isn't any better than all the people and things he casts down. That's the truth.
IT: Did that help you better gain perspective on your own self-consciousness with not feeling you make enough money?
R: Yeah, I felt like crying. It was a real catharsis. It was also nice to hear my mom speak up with a lot of emotion - emotion that was clear. It wasn't that speaking ill of Dad, it was constructive to my relationship with him, breaking down his continuing ability to hurt me psyschologically...
IT: I will ask you not to use that kind of language when discussing your feelings. Keep yourself from probing and finding reasons, allow me to be your psychologist, don't be your own psychologist.
What you're saying is talking to your mom about your dad was helpful for you. It made real the feelings of inferiority and your mom was able to keep in control by invalidating his judgments.
R: Yes. Okay, I have to go now. Sorry. I just looked up my old High School social studies eacher Mr. Udesen online and he is doing very well and it made me really happy. I think I am doing much better, thank you.

IT: I will let you go with a smatter of homework: make a plan for the next four weeks. A good spending plan. Now is the time for you to be as organized as ever but do not be stressed out. Keep a mantra of: I am here and I am okay. In any situation apply this. Remember, you are only walking distance from whereever you are. It takes less than an hour to get anywhere in Bend - if your car breaks down be prepared. Wear lots of clothes, pay your electric, gas, an phone bill then brace yourself to not spend anymore. Keep you phone battery recharged. Figure things out on your own. Do not ask your dad, you need to distance yourself from him right now letting these things reprocess. Plus, he's in the mood to control things immediately. That is hurting you right now so don't let it happen. Find a safe place to warm. Drink wine. Let go. Be with Erin. When you are stressed find a safe place in your head to rest awhile. Let than safe place be a hot spring where you will certainly visit in the weeks to come. Weeks of vacation. Find things that are free. Stay warm.
R: Thanks, see you next time.

My first Saturday off in two weeks.

Took a nap today. Just like an old man I stretched out in the recliner with a blanket next to the window in the middle of the day.

The only element missing was the television reeling a Judge Judy rerun.

When I woke up it was dark and I had nothing to show for myself for the day. Still don't.

Earlier today, Kevin & walked along the side of the Christmas parade that snaked it's way down Newport and Harmon. I forgot parades. A band was playing - frozen fingers on brass instruments but the colors of the uniforms were so sharp and clean. People waves as Kevin and I looked on smiling.

"We should get in a line," a camo clad woman suggested to an ROTC gaggle; teenagers, kids and such.

"Not the authority of a drill sergeant," Kevin comments as we pass.

Santa rides by. His speakers are turned up really loud. They crackle, making him sound somewhat possessed. My eyes glaze over, a hige grin on my face.

I LOVE SANTA.

"Maybe their going for a techno, Santa this year," says Kevin as we pass.

After we broke fast at Westside Bakery I clutched him in my arms. Something he said made me laugh.

I remember actually.

A bike shop display read, "Come in a check out our kids bikes," and Kevin imagined us going inside to see them and having the store owner bring out his childrens bike.

"This one is Michael's. Micheal, tell the nice people about your bike," and Michael would groan and tell us about the gears and axles.

"It's a Huffy," I imagined imaginary kid Michael saying.

 It was on Columbia. I love Kevin. He's just my favorite fucking person.

I need to be nicer to him.

Right now I have the post nap gripes. I need to shower, or something.

Instead I am going to a gathering.