On Driving, Part 2 (Or, Step One All Over Again...)

Welcome back.

When last I left you, the exploratory period had ended. All non-practical steps forward had been taken: a driving school had been found, an inquiry was sent, an instructor contacted me, and (far more quickly than I intended) an appointment was made. I already had a permit that had been sitting quite uselessly in my desk for the better part of six months. There was nothing left to do in the matter but drive.

And drive I did.

I promised that I would be candid about this process - the good, the bad, the whatever - and I intend to keep that promise, whether the end result is me gaining a license or lighting the aforementioned permit on fire and dancing on its ashes while loudly and ritualistically forswearing automobiles forever. I'm starting to get the sense that I may be more inclined toward the former, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

On Driving, Part 1 (Or, The Journey Begins...)

I feel like we're really getting to know each other, guys.

When I fired this bad boy up a couple years ago, I had no real directive. My earliest posts are certainly indicative of that, full of deliciously self-aware meandering toward sort-of-maybe-conclusions. And let's be real - there's still no theme here. Posts about making vegan banana bread or whatever will follow ruminations on religion, and that's kind of how I like it. But I feel like I've settled in now - getting personal feels more comfortable than it did before.

In the spirit of that comfort, I'm going to tell you a thing.

I can't drive.

I know, it's not really a secret. I've mentioned it before - in my last post, as a matter of fact. However, I've never really gotten into why I don't know how to drive, and as I **spoiler alert** start the process of learning, I feel like it's important to get a grip on what exactly has been holding me back.

Let me give you a hint: starts with "a," ends with, "nxiety."


Here's the thing: life as a chronically anxious person isn't all panic attacks, all the time. That's the limit, the extreme (at least for me). Mostly, it's a daily practice of facing situations and deciding not to be afraid of them. It's a learned skill that I've come to really value, and even pride myself on - the ability to actively decide that I can do things that terrify me. As awesome as it is to do things you know you love and are good at, there's nothing quite like the feeling of empowerment and accomplishment that comes from doing (and perhaps discovering that you love) a regular, not at all threatening activity that once made you feel as though you were marching toward your doom. I've lived a better life since acquiring this ability.

But I can't drive.

It never felt like something I was actively avoiding. I grew up in San Francisco - public transportation takes time, but it can get you everywhere and you don't have to worry about gas or parking. Done. My parents offered to give me a car if I stayed in state for college, but I wanted to go to Seattle, so forget that. Then it was back to San Francisco, where my first rule still applied. Never mind that, as an adult, I was starting to feel confined by the borders of my city and the limited reach of buses and trains and ferries to points beyond.

There was always an excuse, a reason to put off or delay, until finally - under pressure from my parents - I got my learner's permit. My aunt took me out to an empty parking lot to practice for the first time, and on the way, I got to work with the self-talk: I told myself that I would let go of being nervous and listen to everything I was told. And that worked for a little while - until we tried moving from the parking lot onto the real people street. Instant, pervasive, muscle-obliterating panic.

After that, I suddenly didn't have time to practice. I let my permit expire. I got crazy defensive whenever the issue came up. All hardcore, giant-sized steps back.

Maybe a year ago, I was visiting my sister in L.A. We were having lunch, and she gently inquired about my driving progress. All my old standby excuses came pouring out, but instead of fighting with me about them, she said, "Okay. And do you think it might be something you maybe have some anxiety about?"

To my own surprise, I almost immediately said, "Yes."

She's a tricky one, my sister. It's starting to occur to me that I give her far too little credit when it comes to understanding me.

If you read my last post, you'll know that this came up when I was in the middle of getting my head around a lot of stuff, but I put a pin in it (I know, I'm sorry) so that it wouldn't get lost in the shuffle. When I finally started seeing a therapist, it was one of the things I brought up as really wanting to work on, and we started off great. I took my permit test again. I started exposure therapy - sitting in the driver's seat of a car, putting my hands on the wheel. But that's as far as I could get. The thought of actually driving ramped me up from zero to losing it in seconds.

That's where I am now. What started as a fear has taken on the additional burden of shame and frustration. I don't love being twenty-seven and still bumming rides from people without being able to return the favor. I don't love planning my life around bus and train and ferry schedules. Perhaps worst of all is the thought that I've found a fear that I can't conquer, that will control me and restrict my life while everyone around me passes me by.

A chance conversation with a friend on Saturday lit a fire underneath me. Some well-chosen words and shared experience busted through my self-doubt, and a little seed of excitement was planted. Because you know what? That's not me. I'm nervous and I'm phobic and I somehow always manage to very publicly spit out my breath mint while trying to have professional conversations, but I don't back down from challenges. So I took that feeling and researched driving instructors on Sunday. I found a school with specialists for adults with driving anxiety and panic disorders, and I contacted them on Monday.

An appointment has been made. The journey has begun. And I'm going to share it here, step-by-possibly-painful-step. You'll never know the specifics of my appointments or tests or anything else in advance, because I don't need the added pressure, but I'll for sure be coming by to fill you in after the fact.

And posting vegan banana bread recipes in between.

Buckle up.

On Getting Help (Or, Stuff That Can Happen in a Year...)

I don't talk about my feelings.

It's not the model I was raised with. That's not a slam on my parents, whom I love very much and who I know love me, just an observation. I was with my dad and one of my sisters recently, and he commented that my niece and nephew make him feel like he's on his death bed because of how much they say, "I love you." My sister turned to me and said, "Now we know why we're so uncomfortable expressing that." It's true: we're an emotionally reserved family.

I had my first panic attack just after my fifteenth birthday - 'cause, I mean, what do you get the girl who has everything? It was mid-November. I was a sophomore in high school and it was the night of one of the performances of our fall show. In a freak accident, a friend of mine had been injured during one of her scenes. Most of us had been down in the greenroom when it happened and didn't find out about it until we were about to go onstage for the finale. Adrenaline pushed me through the curtain call, but when I got back downstairs, the room felt like it was crushing me. I was hot, my heart was racing, everything sounded like I was underwater but I felt like I was on fire, and I couldn't breathe.

And I don't talk about this in detail. Really. Ever. I'll say, "I had a panic attack," and move on. Typing all of those words just now made me ridiculously uncomfortable. So forgive the lack of eloquence that may occur as we progress, because I don't know that I'll be able to go back and make adjustments.

The anxiety storm that led to this first explosion had been building since September, something that I touched upon here. My brain's inability to process that didn't absolve it of the need to do so, and I think that this incident - this chance occurrence of injury being done to someone in my life (obviously - and thankfully - with much less lethal stakes) pulled every thought and feeling and worry that had been spinning silently in my head for months together into a single ball of awfulness that I couldn't contain anymore.

It's not my friend's fault that it happened. I don't think I ever actually told her that. We're not really in touch anymore, and I'm sure she knows it, but it absolutely wasn't her fault. If it hadn't happened then, it would've happened another time for some other reason.

Fifteen. That was my introduction to my issues with anxiety and depression, but I didn't feel I was allowed to take ownership of those words. It wasn't because of the stigma that's so often and so unfairly attached to them. Naively, I thought that because I hadn't reached an extreme - because I wasn't suicidal or afraid to leave my house - I didn't have the right to say I was depressed or anxious. Which was dumb. But we're all dumb sometimes, and I didn't know how to ask for help yet.

I'm going to make a long story slightly shorter: it was a long, long time before I figured out how to ask for help.

On Soups and Slipping (Or, Winter is Coming)

Early Monday Morning, my dear father decided it was incredibly important to hose off his car in front of the house before driving it to an undisclosed location. Approximately one hour later, I slipped (but did not fall - it's the little victories, guys) on our icy driveway. Winter weather had arrived in SF with an unusually aggressive vengeance.

I love cold weather, which is likely equal parts growing up in a place where, "winter," does not mean blizzards and the fact that I tend to run very warm. Though, side note, I do not romanticize snow: having had my life interrupted, albeit briefly, by it when I was at school in Seattle, I learned very quickly that snow is just complicated rain. Fun for atmosphere if you have nothing to do, terribly inconvenient when you have to go on living your life. No, San Francisco winters are just right for me: chilly, occasionally rainy, but manageable.

And soup is one of those things that makes it manageable (see what I did there - TRANSITION!).

Making soup is one of the best things ever. It's an inelegant, soothing process that makes you feel homey and usually results in your whole kitchen smelling amazing. Plus, soups are so versatile - you can freeze them and store them, eat them all week, whatever your situation calls for.

I got home from work a little early on Tuesday and was delighted to discover that I had all the makings of a white bean and garlic soup in my pantry (that final week before payday can sometimes result in questionable food choices, so this really was a coup). You can find the recipe for this hearty little number after the jump. In the meantime, watch out for ice on the sidewalk. Seriously.

On Meeting the Apocalypse (Or, Help Make This Thing)

I said I wasn't going to blog during NaNoWriMo. I lied.

What has compelled me to break the serious and sacred bond of self-imposed cyber-silence? I'm so glad you asked.

Diani & Devine - the creative team behind horror comedy The Selling and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn [Robotic Edition], and other excellence - have launched a new Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for their latest project: Diani and Devine Meet the Apocalypse. If we really want to get technical about it, they launched it a couple weeks ago. While I threw my money at it on the first day, I've kind of been resting on my backer laurels since then, and that simply cannot continue to stand.

On Creative Challenges (Or, Agreeing to Write a Novel in 30 Days...)

Ladies and gentlemen, if you are reading this the day it goes up, we have exactly two weeks until the first day of November. If it's after October 18th for you, that makes it even MORE pressing. And if it's before, well...maybe message me so that we can talk about your glorious time machine.

November is kind of a big deal. First and foremost, it is the month of my birth - let's never forget that. It's usually when the weather starts to get fiercely autumnal and awesome. Thanksgiving pops up, if you're in the U.S. Good movies always come out (Thor: The Dark World and Catching Fire, guys, I die). This year will bring us the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special (I am revived, that I may die again). As if all of this excellence wasn't enough, November also happens to be National Novel Writing Month.

On The Modern Pop Star (Or, I Just Realized The Irony of Talking About Growing Pains In This Post)

First off, the sincerest of thank yous to everyone who did me the honor of reading, and in some cases responding to, my last post. It was a difficult thing to put out there, and the respect and support it received meant the world.

But let's focus on the present now, shall we?

So, the VMAs happened. I largely ignored them. That's not me taking a stand or having a position on them or anything - I just had other things I wanted to do instead. It was that simple.

Then the world...I shouldn't say world, I don't know that for a fact. Cyberworld? The internet and the continental US, for sure, exploded with words about Miley Cyrus' instantly infamous performance with Robin Thicke. Negative words. Positive words. All kinds of words.


I had no words for it, other than that I hadn't seen it and didn't care to. The fallout from the Twerk Heard 'Round the World ebbed and flowed, and I watched it all from afar. At its best, the firestorm prompted interesting discussions about gender roles, cultural appropriation, and the increasingly prevalent and disturbing trend of what has been dubbed, "slut-shaming." At its worst, it gave rise to rampant sexism and the kind of ugly speech that only seems to really come out when the curtain of anonymity that is the internet is drawn. In between was a mine (or a mine field, depending on how you look at it) of jokes.

Here's the thing: I've been trying to take a high road when it comes to celebrity gossip and controversy and controgossip or whatever. Part of the reason is because, for every Real Housewife or Kardashian who makes an active choice to commodify their lives, there are ten other people who just wanted to act or sing or write or whatever and are trying to be people the rest of the time. So yes, in an effort to be a more respectful citizen of the world, I follow the people I enjoy through official means (Twitter, their sites, etc.), where they get to choose which details of their lives will be disclosed, and actively try to avoid all the rest.

On a more selfish level, phasing out the fodder has been kind of good for my soul. Ultimately, celebrity gossip is just gossip, and involving yourself in that kind of drama passively can be just as damaging as being involved in it actively in your school or workplace or whatever. I have to get super hippiesh on you at least once a post, right? Just know that I'm being sincere when I say life's a lot more fun when you avoid inviting negative energy in.

For these reasons, I avoided Mileygate. I don't know the song, I didn't watch the performance, and - perhaps most important of all - I don't know her. Zero was the exact percentage of things I was qualified to discuss about the matter.

Now I have some things to say, but I do so with the disclaimer that this is all my opinion and is more of a reflection on my own experience, because again, I don't know any of the people I am about to mention, nor have I ever met them (aside from Amanda Palmer once, very briefly - she was lovely to me).

Yesterday, I read Sinead O'Connor's open letter (the first - it would seem that at least two subsequent letters now exist) to Cyrus (which you can find here), which the former appears to have been moved to write in response to comments made by the latter about the music video for, "Wrecking Ball," having been inspired in part by the video for, "Nothing Compares 2 U." It was a heartfelt letter, praising the young star's talent and begging her not to let the people she's surrounded herself with convince her that the only way to market that talent is by selling her body rather than her voice.

Amanda Palmer, solo artist and one half of The Dresden Dolls, responded with her own open letter to O'Connor, respectfully raising the counterpoints that, 1) to her credit, regardless of how arguably wise or appropriate her decisions are, Miley Cyrus seems to be running her own show, and 2) it is her right, as a person and a performer, to forge her own identity. To deny her that right, simply because we do not like what has emerged, would be a disservice to all people - young and old, women and men alike - who are trying to find themselves.

Another point that Palmer raised in her post was that she (along with most of us) was allowed to explore her artistic identity from within the safe confines of her room - I believe, "incubate," was the term she used, which I found very effective. Miley Cyrus spent her most formative years in front of a camera. Her image - her actual image - was part of an industry. There is little to no room for a child star to have growing pains, creatively or otherwise, in that situation.

That's what's happening here, if you really think about it. I look at the the pictures and the videos and the rest, and I don't see a, "slut," or even an, "idiot." What I see is a kid saying, "Fuck you, Mom & Dad, it's my life and you can't tell me what to do." It just so happens that, in this case, "Mom & Dad," refers to pop culture.

My growing pains were different, but ultimately they probably arose for the same reason: control. I wanted it, and I didn't have it. It's one of those things that makes being a teenager - or, really, just a person in the world - so frustrating sometimes, and why feeling misunderstood can almost be a perverse kind of release - there's a weird sense of mastery that comes with being the only one who, "gets it."

Now, am I endorsing the image that's being projected? No. I am no more a proponent of using sex as a sales pitch than I am of using it as a weapon. And that's an undeniable part of this - Cyrus might be naked because she just wants to be naked, but she's also consciously taking off her clothes in an effort to move herself to the head of the pop star pack. She's said as much, in an article I unfortunately cannot reference because I neglected to save the link. That's really the only thing I find terribly upsetting about the whole subject, but it's not unique to this situation. I was upset about it before the VMAs, and I'll be upset about it long after Miley Cyrus has either put on some pants or swung naked into the sunset on a piece of construction equipment.

There's an escalating trend of hypersexualization among women in pop music, and it's kind of a bummer. The Irish Times' Una Mullally does a good job of outlining it here, and it's something we should all think about. For me, I think it's indicative of the dearth of modern female pop artists on my radar. At this point in my life, I either wax nostalgic or turn to other genres, but I wonder sometimes how I'd perceive things if I were younger,

This isn't something that can be solved in a blog post, least of all one of mine. And maybe you're of the opinion that there's nothing to be solved at all. Maybe you're right. I suppose, in the interest of wrapping this up, what I can say is that, if you're not digging what Miley Cyrus and/or other folks are up to right now, you have a choice. Turn off the radio, put on your own music, change the channel, stop clicking links. If you're worried about your kids because the image that's being put out there doesn't match with your values, talk to them about it - calmly, and without condemnation. Help them see the value of their own sexuality, and that there are safe and healthy ways to express it. Media is everywhere - you can't control the flow of data anymore, not really, but you can choose how you respond to it.