Death to Perfection

Whenever I come up with a new idea for a project, I take about a day to dream about it, and then the next day, I do it.

I hear so many brilliant, creative people say that they’re going to write their screenplay, or their novel, to start their business “someday.” But someday is today.

I used to think like that too. I used to believe that I wasn’t quite capable yet of whatever it was that I wanted to accomplish, because I wanted it to be perfect. But my great grandmother wrote me a little poem once that said, “Count that day lost, when the low-descending sun views from thy hand, no worthy action done.”

That verse changed my life. Every day should contain at least one worthy action, and that probably looks different for everyone—but for me, I often think of it when it comes to my work and writing. Every day, I want to move at least one step forward in whatever it is I’m working on.

Perfection is what holds us back. Perfection kills creativity. Perfection puts to death the ability to ever take a step forward.

So I killed perfection. If you read my first drafts, they’re raw. If you took a look at some of my murder mysteries, they’re kind of rough. My visual novel contains mistakes, glitches, and errors that an advanced programmer would never make.

But I made something.

As long as you begin, and as long as you finish what you started, you can always refine it later. Just don’t stop working on it because it isn’t perfect or because it doesn’t match what is in your head. Nothing in this world will ever be perfect.

Let me say that again for the people in the back:

NOTHING IN THIS WORLD WILL EVER BE PERFECT.

So stop trying to make it perfect.  If you aim for perfection, you are destined to fail. If you aim to do your best, and make the best product that you’re capable of at that moment, you’re going to succeed.

If you just go ahead and begin, you’re already leaps and bounds ahead of those who say they’re going to make their dreams come true “someday.”

Swallowing my Stress: The Last Year and a Half

“You don’t seem to understand,” I told our mortgage broker. “If we don’t get this house this week, we won’t have anywhere to live…”

The young man smiled beguiling at me and spoke in a “there-there” fashion. “I promise you, it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“No,” I assured him. “It will not. It’s actually been making me sick…”

Looking back a year and a half ago, I remember when it all started. The stress from buying the house was immense. I’ve always internalized my stress and tried to just swallow it down, deep inside of me, hoping that if it wasn’t visible to the rest of the world, then I’d have a fighting chance of beating it. But this time, it was difficult…

Our beautiful 1932, historic house was a dream come true. The first time I saw it; I just drove by and noticed the gorgeous sunroom that jutted off to the side. I knew what I would do with that room. It would be my study. It would be my writing room. It would be my inspiration. My novel would be written there. Then, our realtor took us to look at it and it was as beautiful on the inside as I had imagined. Original hardwood floors, pre-war glass windows, and “diamond door knobs” as my father called the clear glass knobs with original locks that can only be opened with skeleton keys.

We were in love. But then we decided to buy it, and all hell broke loose.

I won’t go into all the problems that we had with an archaic system that assumes the man has the better credit, or the three times they pushed back our closing date, which almost led to homelessness. What I will mention, though, is the fact that the law firm we were working with as our mediator for all paper-signing, lost our earnest deposit check.

I do have to admit, though, that we did something we never should have—so this one may be kind of on us. We were asked to send our earnest deposit check by taking a photo of it and sending it to the law firm. We had done that before with another house that we almost bought, and we were assured multiple times that this is how it’s usually done in the industry. It seemed… normal, especially in this digital day and age.

We don’t know exactly what happened, but I woke up one Saturday morning and looked at our bank account, and it was wiped clean. Nothing was left. The money we had been saving for the new house was just…gone. Further inspection revealed a check we had never written… yet from the photo that the bank provided, I recognized it as the check we used for our earnest deposit.

We went through all the usual channels in order to get the money back, and the bank was extremely helpful, but by the time it was put back in the account, the hacker had re-used the check by “whiting out” the old information and putting in different information… but this time, she used her real name. I did some significant online snooping and found someone by that name, who lived nearby, and for other reasons I won’t mention here, I was about 98% certain I had found the thief. We filed a case with the police and gave them all the information, but they never did anything about it. It wasn’t important enough for them to investigate—but it was important to us. In the span of about 4 days, our account had been wiped clean twice.

For anyone who has bought a house before, you know that the one thing they tell you not to do is close or open any new bank accounts. It looks like fraud. But, we had no choice but to close the hacked account. That started the real problem. We suddenly had to tell our mortgage people every single purchase we had made in the last 3 months, and every purchase we would continue to make. Every single thing had to be sent to them in a long running list. It was a hassle.

While the bank account debacle was definitely the worst part of our stress during that time, there were quite a few other things that did not go well. I won’t go into those right now, because they involve other people and it’s not my place to mention them, but it was around this time that I realized one night that I wasn’t able to swallow anymore.

Not food. Not liquids. And at some times, not even my own saliva. Something wasn’t right…

I went to a few doctors. I saw a therapist. But nothing seemed to help. I chalked it up to stress, but the stress of not being able to eat or drink stressed me out more than anything else.

But time doesn’t stop for you to recover. I still had to go to work. I still had to go through the house-buying process. I still had to live my life. I just had to live it in starvation and thirst.

As time ticked by, I started to be able to eat again a little, but by that time, I had lost 25 lbs. I told everyone that it was because I was dieting. That was somewhat true, because I had been dieting before the swallowing issue started, so some of the weight-loss was intentional. But the last 10 or 15 lbs were not.

Eventually, food became easier, but liquids did not. If I took a sip bigger than half a teaspoon’s worth, I’d choke just trying to put it in the back of my throat. It just wouldn’t go down. I’d have to fight with my own throat in order to power any liquids down. Thicker liquids were better, and sometimes I could eat an apple and feel somewhat refreshed. But for about a year and a half, I was dehydrated. I craved water like nothing else. To this day, when I see someone tip up a glass to take a drink, I watch them intently, wishing that I could do the same.

Finally, I got fed up and went back to my doctor. He ran me through a round of tests: a scope down my nose into my stomach and the dreaded Barium swallow. I’ll never forget that one. I could barely finish that test, but once I was finally done, a very terrified-looking nurse in training took me aside and whispered, “I have the exact same problem,” and then hurried frightfully away. I felt for her. I don’t know why, but there is something about swallowing issues that feel—embarrassing, as if it should be something that you should just be able to force yourself to do.

For 6 months the doctor had me on a regiment of allergy and acid reflux medications. And to be honest, it actually has kind of helped. I began to eat fully again, and as weird as this is going to sound, I was able to drink water from a water fountain. There is something about taking in water that way that is easier than using a cup or a bottle. I still wasn’t able to drink properly, but at least I could go to a water fountain (or stick my head under a running sink) and quench my thirst for the first time in about 18 months.

At the last appointment with my doctor, he told me that I suffer from sever acid reflux due to extreme stress—the stress that began with buying the house, was intensified by the major house repairs we had to do (that’s another story, though), and any other stress that I encounter.

I still have bad days, where if work has been particularly stressful, or I fight with a family member or someone, suddenly I find myself unable to eat. But generally after a few days (and a few pounds dropped), I’m able to eat again.

What I really miss is being able to just drink properly from a cup. Every little sip of a liquid is a fight. I have to take 3 swallows just to ingest a small mouthful of water. The doctor says that the damage that the acid reflux left in my esophagus will take time to be repaired, so it’s hard to say when—if ever, I’ll be able to drink normally again. The best I can do now is try to rest, relax, and not get so worked up about life.

Easier said than done, of course, but for me, I’ve already decided on what my New Year’s resolution will be. I’m going to take life a little slower. I’m going to stay home more. I’m going to spend time with my husband. I’m going to welcome my loved ones into my home—but I’m probably not going to be running around as much as I did in 2018.

I just need to heal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a water fountain…

Candy in My Pocket

I once read an article about the woman who played Anakin’s mother in the Star Wars movies. She said that being a part of the films was like carrying around a piece of candy in her pocket. On the hard days, she can take it out and enjoy it. To her, just the memory that she had been a part of something like Star Wars, was enough to lift her out of whatever depressing situation that came her way.

My “imaginary friend” has always been that way for me. He’s the bit of “candy” in my pocket. Even now as a grown woman, he’s still there. He was the playmate of a friendless little girl, and the man who formed my idea of what manhood should be. I don’t understand him. He’s just always been one of those miracles you just accept. But he’s always been a bit of comfort on a rainy day.

It’s rained a lot lately. Figuratively.

Most of you know by now, but our toilet decided to give up the ghost on December 26^th, leaking into the kitchen. Since then, our house has been in medias res. Christmas presents are where we left them… There is still a (presumably rotting) ham left in the fridge where we forgot to eat it… And the house has started to smell like 1932 again. It’s weird how old houses will revert to that dusty, bookish smell when they’re left vacant.

We’ve been living in a hotel room since then, and I’m just homesick. I want to go home. Of course, we do go to the house… but it’s not the same. If you have to use the bathroom, you have to drive down to Kroger…or you know…do it bucket-style. I’m not that good at roughing it.

Brentton and I have both been under a lot of stress since the plumbing issue. People keep asking us when we’ll be back in the house, and the truth is, we don’t know. All the red tape, all the insurance problems, all the times I’ve spent trying to trick our blockhead insurance adjuster into picking up our calls has just led us feeling lifeless and sad.

Just sad. There’s no other word for it.

Even work, one of my most favorite things has left me feeling useless. I adore my job and where I work, but somehow the lethargy of my outside life has seeped into my work life. I just feel unneeded some days. As displaced as I feel at home, it’s beginning to feel that way in other areas of my life too.

But then, God.

It’s always “but then God.” He’s the hope that lifts me out of the moorland where I’ve landed in some sort of bog. He’s got strange ways of picking me up, too. I’ve always believed the “imaginary friend” was one of his ways of picking me up. As a child, this friend had been my beautiful boy. But one day, in one of those amazingly-realistic dreams, I was told to choose between something imaginary, and something real. I chose the real, and that was where Brentton came in.

After that, the dreams changed a bit. My “friend” became just that: a friendly, familiar face in my dreams…and that’s where he stays.

A few nights ago, my imaginary friend and I went to a concert together. Of course, it was a dream, but it didn’t feel like one. They are always the most logical, realistic dreams I have ever had. If I didn’t know better, I could swear that they’re some sort of alternate reality. And even though I’m not too much of a concert-goer, it just felt so logical to be hitching a ride together, my friend and me, to a concert in some bustling city. We fought for parking and came to the concert late. It all just felt so… real.

Of course, it can’t be. I always wake up, and tell Brentton all about my excursions. He’s the best listener. I’m thankful for the real parts of my life—the concrete. But at the same time, there is something to be said for the imaginary, the magical, the little parts of life that make you hope, that make you believe in things just outside what might be for the moment, the rainy bog of reality.

I don’t need the imaginary all the time… just sometimes, when I need to carry a little piece of candy in my pocket.

The Good Liars

The hard thing about liars… good liars… is that you never really see the lies coming. Granted, no one can really cover up a lie forever. I believe that the Achilles heel of lies is the fact that at some point, the truth will come out.

But the worst part is that it’s generally the people closest to you who can cut you to pieces in just a single moment of, “Well actually, I never told you…but…” Because, the people who we pass in our everyday lives, our coworkers, our acquaintances, they don’t have the power to hurt us like our loved ones do. Even if they did lie to us, we either wouldn’t care, or would never find out.   

For the people called, dare I say, pathological liars, one lie leads to another, and another, until you’ve found out that the person you’ve trusted for so long has been telling you falsehoods over a long period of time. It might have started out easily enough. Perhaps this friend or relation just wanted to protect you from something he/she thought would hurt you. But then, the lie got a bit deeper… Eventually it’s too deep for even the liar to carry around.

And that is when the world comes crashing down.

“Who are you?”

“How have I not known these things about you for so long?”

“How could you have willingly deceived me?”

Crash.

The delicate glass foundation that you thought was made of faith, is actually made of lies, and there it is broken right in front of you. It just lays there, shattered and unable to be mended…

At least, for now…

But how the hell do you come back after that? What do you do? Do you just leave that person, never to return? Do you just choose to keep trusting them, picking yourself back up with each new revelation as lies reveal themselves over time?

I have no idea. With the revelation of each new lie, I find it hard to be glad of the newfound honesty. I just feel bled dry, each time the Band Aid is peeled off slowly—hurt again and again and again by what should have been said so long ago.

I deserve the truth.

Weird Questions People Ask Newlyweds

Question Number 1:

When Brentton and I got engaged, the question I heard the most was, “When are you going to have kids?”

This was a funny question to me, because we had only just gotten engaged—not married. Most of the questions came from my deeply religious friends too, who are proponents of only having children after marriage, so I found it amusing that they asked so early.

Since then, it’s slacked off a bit, but I still get it from time to time. A couple of mornings ago at a meeting, a coworker asked me if I had started thinking about kids yet. I tried to briefly answer and then wave away the question, but she continued with: “You know how that happens, right?” with a little gleam in her eye. I replied with the answer I’ve been waiting to use: “Actually, can you explain to me how that happens?”

Luckily for me, she found it hilarious. The others at the table squirmed a little though.

I don’t really mind the question much anymore, because even though children aren’t on the radar for my husband and myself, I’m a strong believer that if God wants something to happen, it’ll happen. I mean, the Bible is filled with you’re-totally-going-to-have-a-surprise-baby stories.

But what bothers me about the child questions is that most of the time, it come from well-meaning, almost-strangers. What if my husband and I are not able to have children? They would have no way of knowing this, and their questions would be painful. I have friends who have had horrible trouble conceiving, and not being able to have a child is the most painful thing in the world to them. Questions like that just rub more salt in the wound.

The other side of the coin is that having children is a deeply-personal thing. Now, I know that we live in a very sexually-liberated time, but I’m still squeamish at being asked about my… *clears throat awkwardly* …reproductive intentions. I mean,, when people ask about children, they’re thinking of cute kids with curls and blue eyes. But often when I hear the question, it just sounds more like, “So…are you and your husband…you know, doing it?” Speaking of which…that brings me to the next question…

Question Number 2:

Possibly more awkward than question number one, is the straight up question of… “So…how was it?” usually accompanied by a wink and a nudge. For some reason, people are extremely interested in a new couple’s sex life. I don’t mind discussing things with my close girlfriends when I feel like venturing information, but it’s just awkward to be asked that. It puts you on the spot, and you aren’t just discussing something about yourself, but about your partner as well. The privacy of two people is involved.

Question Number 3:

The frequency with which I receive this one is actually astonishing. People ask me one of two versions of this question:

1: “Don’t you ever feed your husband?”

2: “You feed him too much!” 

First of all…I don’t spoon-feed this guy. He’s a grown man and he operates the fork on his own. We eat normal meals every day and he eats until he’s full … like you know … a normal human. He makes his own choices about what he eats or doesn’t eat. I’m not in charge of that. There are some days when he’s hungrier than others, and some days when he’s not hungry at all. But no matter who is doing the cooking, he has the ultimate choice of what goes in his body.

Bonus Question:

“What do you do with your time?”

I’m not even going to pretend on this one. In our household there is a lot of cuddling, piggy-back rides (he’s tall, so it’s an experience), and just sitting and talking together. People always talk about how the first year of marriage is about getting to know your spouse, and it is. If you’ve always lived separately before you were married, it’s great fun to go to bed together every night and wake up together too. It’s nice to have someone to share meals with, especially if the last several years, you always ate alone.

We pretty much just spend our time together, and it’s wonderful. The evenings and weekends fly by because we’re just enjoying our togetherness. It might not sound very productive, and it probably isn’t, but it’s an investment in another person and a relationship, so it’s always worthwhile. 

Falling on Deaf Ears

I’m a listener.

I like to listen. I’m good at listening. So many of my relationships are based upon that fact. I have many people who pour out their day to me, their thoughts, their troubles, etc. I love that. I love being a safe space. Everything they tell me is in confidence and it’ll stay that way. I want to always be that for them, especially for my close friends.

But I feel like listening is a two-way act of mutual respect. And sometimes, the other person needs to talk too. Unfortunately, there aren’t many other listeners out there. Granted, I have amazing friends and family who DO listen. But, many times in general day-to-day life, I end up being run over in conversations. Many times when I try to change the conversation or pour out something that’s important to me, it gets ignored. The person I’m talking to plows through with his or her own thoughts and concerns, and leaves my words in the dust.

I shouldn’t have to be at my rope’s end to feel like someone is listening. I should be able to talk about everyday things. I should be able to explain why the change at my job has affected my life, my thoughts on a good vacation spot, my ideas about an upcoming event.

Today I went to a book discussion and I found myself amazed when the professor leading the discussion made eye contact with me, took in what I said, and then replied. She wasn’t just waiting for me to finish so that she could go on with something she had been waiting to say. She genuinely wanted to know my thoughts and hear what I had to say too. I was surprised by how much this took me by surprise.

Everyone has a deep need for communication. I’ve met so many very outgoing people who complain that their friends don’t reach out enough to them. I understand that, but these are the same people who when are reached out to, only reply in emojis. For anyone who’s a bit old fashioned, like myself, this isn’t enough to make someone want to reach out.

I realized that this rare trait of genuine and complete communication was what made me fall in love with my husband. In my wedding vows to him, I told him that he was the first person I ever met who I thought really listened to me. So many other people may have heard me, but he listened.

Every message I sent to him, he replied back to, touching on every point I made. He’s the best, most unselfish communicator I’ve ever met, and that was what I fell in love with. I just wish that more people understood the give and take of a conversation. 

Sometimes "Normal" is a Compliment

It’s funny to think of the little things that cement a relationship.

For example, I knew that Brentton was going to be my husband when we were on our first in-person date. We were in Toys R Us (yes, I know) in the Lego section and I started to sing, “Darkness…” and he finished with “No parents.” And as silly as that Lego Movie reference sounds, it really turned the tide for me.

Brentton said that he knew I was the one for him when we were still long-distance dating. During one of our instant-message type conversations, I told him that I could handle him. In the moment, I actually felt kind of silly saying it…but I knew I had to say it. It was almost as if I was being told to say it. To me, it didn’t mean all that much, but to Brentton, who had been told by countless ex-girlfriends that they couldn’t “handle” his emotions or “handle” his personality, being told “I can handle you,” was something he had never heard before.

In the same way, Brentton gave me a completely different kind of compliment one day when he told me that he liked me because I was “so normal.” That sort of stopped me in my tracks for a moment. I had never been called “normal” before. If you had asked me before that moment if the word “normal” was complimentary, I would have shrugged and said no. But, for some reason, when it first met my ears, I loved it.

I realized that I had always been considered a bit of a class clown by my non-theatre friends, and by my family, “a drama queen,” as my brother likes to call me. So many people had pointed out my differences, but no one had ever identified with me enough to call me “normal.”

I guess after you’ve spent your life feeling different from everyone, it’s nice to find someone who is just as different as you are, who finds those differences to be well…normal.

When you’re in these moments, they don’t always strike you as turning points, but later when you’ve had time to reflect, you realize that those are the moments that changed everything. Those are the moments where you’ll look back some day and realize it was your Donna Noble, “Turn Left” moment (a little nerdy reference for you Whovians out there).