30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 12

I feel like it would be a little silly for me to draw this, my drawing/blog project, even though it feels like a much bigger accomplishment (despite how far behind I am) than what I'm about to discuss. I have to save that for the end, unfortunately, so instead I'm going to talk about a small accomplishment that still feels really, really good: staying in the no-hangover zone.

I'm not an alcoholic (though it does run in my family on my dad's side); on the other hand, I've realized recently that it's rare that, once I start drinking, I stop when it's appropriate. I like to think I knew where that line was at some point, but maybe I'm romanticizing the past. I don't know -- I just know that there have been way too many times where I've told myself I could have just one more, only to deeply regret it the next day.

It was different five or six years ago, in my early 20s -- which is funny considering that that's the time when everyone expects you to drink the most heavily. My self-destructive phase was more in my mid-20s, after college, when I was single. I went out all the time, especially when I lived in Allston. I think mostly I was bored, and getting drunk and being foolish was an easy way to distract myself without feeling truly responsible for the consequences of my actions.

These days, I don't go out with self-destruction in mind the way I used to, but alcohol has become a part of my daily existence in a different way. I don't drink every day, but it has somehow become an integral part of every weekend and every social engagement. It's extremely rare that I spend time with friends in any context without alcohol. It's not the worst thing -- we're all fully functional adults with jobs and creative lives and relationships and blah blah blah. Maybe it really isn't that big of a deal. But... maybe it is?

As someone who struggles with anxiety, it's disturbingly easy for me to rely on alcohol as a social lubricant. After a drink or two, I stop clenching my teeth and fists; my tongue loosens and I laugh more frequently. On paper, that sounds like a good thing... until you read the next chapter and discover what happens after drink four or five or six. My habit of mentally reliving embarrassing drunken moments for days after they happen should be enough to stop me or at least slow me down, but it doesn't. Hangovers don't seem to bother me much, either.

But how difficult would it really be if I went out one night and hardly drank, or drank nothing at all?

I tested myself twice last week. As it turned out, the fear I had built up over confronting the world sober, anxiety and all, was much worse than the reality. And waking up the following days, maybe a little tired but without a hint of a hangover, able to remember the conversations I had, was heavenly. I'm a creature of habit, so it may take a lot of reminders that I am just as awesome sober as I am tipsy to make social sobriety a regular thing, but I think it's worth a try. That doesn't mean I'll never drink again, of course, but I don't have to drink every time alcohol is available to me, and I don't have to drink to the point of intoxication. I have a lot of nasty habits I want to change, and it seems like this is a good place to start. Wish me luck.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 11

I hadn't lived in Boston very long when I met my first real boyfriend. The beginning was, as it always is, intensely lovely. I instantly fell madly in love with him. I really, truly believed we were going to get married and have beautiful babies and live happily ever after.

And I really, truly believed this not just because I was so in love, but because I ignored a lot of red flags. I ignored all the long periods when he was so high-strung and nervous that he depended on a combination of weed and Nyquil to get to sleep. I ignored the times when he'd sleep entire weekends away and resist going anywhere or doing much of anything. I ignored the OCD, the jealousy, the obsession with obtaining alcohol (and weed) above most other things. I ignored his unwillingness to admit that there was something more going on with him than simple depression -- and that a bottle of anti-depressants, prescribed by his pediatrician from another state, couldn't fix everything.

Once he got to the point of having suicidal thoughts, it took only a few weeks for the relationship to completely deteriorate. I still loved him passionately, but it was too much responsibility for me to be his primary source of support. He couldn't accept that. The details are somewhat irrelevant now, but eventually, I was forced to file a restraining order against him. The day I faced him in court was probably the most devastating day of my entire life. I had never cried so much in one day before that, nor have I since.

By that point, I had fallen far behind in all of my classes at Northeastern. All the drama (and I've left out quite a bit of it) made it impossible to focus. My professors were as understanding as they could be and extended many deadlines, but every time I sat down to do school work, I was completely overwhelmed. For the first time in my life, I started having panic attacks.

I finally recognized that if I tried to finish out the semester, I would fail. It became obvious that the only viable option was to take a medical/mental health leave of absence, putting Incompletes on my transcript for all my classes, and take the rest of the semester (as well as the following one) to get my life back together.

I felt strongly (against the advice of many people) that the best way to gain strength from such an awful situation was to stay here in Boston, away from my best friend and my family, and push through the sadness and panic myself. It wasn't easy. I had to work a full-time retail job plus a part-time job working the door at a bar just to pay the most basic bills. I ate as little and as cheaply as possible. I was sick from exhaustion nearly the entire time and had no insurance to go to the doctor. I had no financial help and little emotional support, especially as a relative newcomer to Boston. My parents worried that I wouldn't return to school and regularly questioned my decision. I had frequent nightmares about my ex breaking into my apartment and trying to kill me. I felt utterly alone.

But the truth was that I, like my ex, had issues that I'd been unwilling to confront for a very long time. I had always had bouts of depression and anxiety, and I'd always been insanely insecure -- and of course, like everyone, there were things from my past (both in my childhood and more recently) that I'd never fully processed. I acknowledged this to myself, but I was ashamed to acknowledge it to anyone else. As traumatic as the experience with my ex had been, in some strange way it liberated me; I finally had a reason to seek the help I had needed for most of my life. It was a turning point. I began weekly therapy for the duration of my leave of absence, and I continued to see my therapist for a long time after. When I went back to school (as I'd always known I would), I was highly successful, earning solid A's and generally kicking butt for the remainder of my college career.

I took a break from therapy for awhile, once I felt like I'd eliminated most of my PTSD symptoms, and I came off the anti-depressants I'd been prescribed. A few years later, when my job situation became unbearable (and the panic attacks returned), I started again. I also used anti-anxiety medications for about a year, despite the protests of a few people who are close to me. Throughout all of this I have realized that, for me, mental health work is never done, and therapy is a key tool in keeping me a relatively sane and happy person; I've realized that none of this makes me defective or broken or less valuable than anyone else; I've realized that I know myself best, so it's up to me (with some help from my doctor) to figure out how to make my life better, even if it occasionally invites negative judgment from outsiders.

And though I wish mental health issues on no one, I feel some measure of comfort knowing that many of my friends struggle with similar issues. I don't know if we're naturally drawn together, if we recognize that feeling of brokenness in each other, or if everybody is equally screwed up and some are just better at hiding it than others. It doesn't matter, really -- I just hope they know that it is a show of great strength, not weakness, to ask for help.

And everybody needs a little help, every now and then.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 10

I love sugar.

I love cookies, I love cake, I love nearly every form of candy from Jolly Ranchers to the fanciest dark chocolate. I couldn't get myself addicted to cigarettes -- and I did try! -- but I have never been able to break my addiction to sugar. It's the thing I crave most and the thing I always turn to when I'm having a crappy day.

Oh, sugar, I wish I knew how to quit you.

My enthusiasm for sugar drastically increases when it comes to holiday treats. After all, the normal stuff comes in fun shapes (a Snickers that looks like a little soldier!) and there are certain mind-blowingly tasty things you can only get that one time a year. I think you all know what I'm talking about.

Cadbury Creme Eggs, y'all.

I have loved those things for as long as I can remember. They were a major reason I looked forward to Easter as a kid (and they're pretty much the only reason I still do). When I worked at CVS, I used to buy tons of them on post-season clearance with the intention of hoarding them year-round; instead, they'd all be gone within the week. In more recent years, I've purchased a box or two of the miniature ones, thinking I could enjoy the smaller doses of deliciousness and thus feel less guilty. That didn't work either; I could never eat just one.

These days I try to just avoid the seasonal aisle at Walgreen's as much as I can. A few days ago, however, I caved and bought one. Some childhood loves lose their luster after a few years, but that Cadbury Creme Egg was every damn bit as delicious as I'd remembered.

And I didn't feel even a little bit guilty.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 9

"If we live our lives the right way, then everything we do can become a work of art."

~Claire Fisher, Six Feet Under

I'd never really considered how much we sanitize death until I watched Six Feet Under. Suddenly, it seemed very strange: the way we try to preserve the bodies, make them look like they did in life, lay them on a bed of satin, cry on their graves not once but over and over and over (but quietly, and mostly in private), until we die ourselves. When did this become the normal way of doing things? Why is death -- just as natural and inevitable as birth -- such a shameful thing, so blanketed in denial?

When I started watching the show, I hadn't really experienced death myself. I knew some elderly neighbors or distant relatives or family friends who had died, and although I felt a lot of empathy for their families and some measure of sadness for myself, it wasn't until my grandparents died that I truly felt grief.

I don't have much to compare it to, of course, but I'm so grateful that my grandparents opted to skip the embalming/viewing stage and go straight to cremation. The thought of having to see them as mannequins, false representations of their former selves, made my stomach churn (as it still does). I'm unconvinced that literally seeing them one last time, but minus the opportunity to say any real goodbyes, would have done much to help me grieve. I'm also unconvinced that having a grave site to obsess over would have made the process any easier, especially when I already have such complicated feelings about living far away from my family. Everyone has their own way of grieving, of course, but for me, there is no point in trying to have an ongoing emotional relationship with their bodies; the people are already gone, and pretending otherwise gives me no comfort.

One of many things that drew me to this show was its willingness to confront a wide range of people's complicated feelings about death, along with what actually happens in a funeral home, how many things about death are concealed from the mourners, and how bizarre (and often darkly funny) it all really is. Outside of the macabre, its brutal honesty, no matter how controversial the topic, and the complexity of all the characters make it a shoo-in for my favorite show. So far, I have found nothing else that sucked me in as immediately or tugged as forcefully on my heartstrings. I can't wait to watch it all again, from start to finish.

Sorry, I couldn't get it to stay rotated, no matter what I did. :(

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 8

I think I probably watched about the same amount of animated shows and movies as any other kid did -- Bugs Bunny, Smurfs, Care Bears, My Little Pony, The Jetsons, Animaniacs, and on and on. I watched tons of Disney movies, I watched Pixar movies as a teen and and an adult, I still occasionally watch shows like Family Guy and South Park. But what show or movie used my favorite animated character? Unlike my favorite book or my favorite movie, nothing instantly sprang to mind. What cartoon still evoked the same emotional response in me now as it did five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago?

When I look back on all the Disney movies that I watched over and over as a kid -- Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty, Pocahontas -- I feel a short burst of nostalgia, and then I feel apathetic. I still know all the words to the soundtrack, but all the heroines feel interchangeable to me. Why?

I think, after awhile, so many of those classics blur together because they're all so heavily focused on the heroine finding love. Don't get me wrong, I'm a total sucker for a sappy love story -- after all, as you recall, my favorite movie is The Princess Bride -- but it's problematic as the primary representation of a woman's life goals (animated or otherwise). Over the years, more movies have come out that are not so singularly focused on the happily ever after, but a lot of them feature male main characters rather than female ones.

I'm not the first to wonder if that Disney-princess influence has done more harm to little girls than good; it seems we should be teaching them that there is more to being a woman -- and a human -- than getting married and popping out babies (and I say this as someone who very much wants both of those things). I won't get into a heavy analysis of all this, as it's well-covered territory, but it's something I've thought more about as I've gotten more comfortable in my own views about gender roles, and closer to possibly having a little girl or boy of my own.

I find it odd that so many women try to distance themselves from the label of "feminist," even though it means something that most people actually want: equal treatment of women and men. (If you think feminism means hating men, you're wrong, plain and simple.) The fact that all these "men's rights" groups are suddenly popping up turns my stomach -- they are completely missing the point! -- and although many of their claims are clearly sexist in nature, I think some of that anger comes from ignorance of what feminism actually is. No one is asking for special treatment, here, y'all.

The fact is, we're not living in a post-sexist society any more than we're living in a post-racial society. If you really need proof, take a look at the case of the eleven-year-old girl who was essentially blamed for her own gang rape because she "dressed older than her age"; sympathy was given to the rapists, of all people, because they would have to "live with this for the rest of their lives." This happens all the time -- women are routinely accused of lying about their own sexual assaults; they are told they "asked for it" by wearing a short skirt or a low-cut shirt, or by daring to go out alone at night; they are told that if they were dumb enough to get too drunk to consent, or if they found themselves alone with a man (even if, again, they did not give consent to sexual activity), they deserved it; they are told that carrying their rapist's baby is the "right" thing to do, despite the many potential emotional, financial, and physical dangers. I hope it's obvious why this is damaging to women, but it's damaging to men, too -- they're often painted as these lust-filled, uncontrollable animals who can't stop themselves from attacking a woman when she's doing all those "wrong" things.

Anyway, I could go on forever about the ways in which we could improve the standing of women (and men!) in American society, but I'll get back to what got me thinking on all this in the first place: a lack of intelligent, forward-thinking, not-love-obsessed female role models in my childhood. Somehow, I had forgotten all about Lisa Simpson.

I watched a lot of The Simpsons growing up, and although I no longer follow it (as I feel the quality has declined over the last decade or so), it holds a special place in my heart. I can't help but have a soft spot for Lisa in particular; despite the merciless mockery and rejection that nearly always ensued when she pursued her progressive interests, she always stood firm in her beliefs and trusted herself completely. I certainly know how it feels to be put down for asserting myself -- especially growing up in the South, where it seems women are punished more severely for speaking up -- and even though she's just a cartoon character, she deserves some respect and props for that.

Go on with your bad self, little Lisa. It gets easier.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 7

"Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!"

This may be one of the most instantly-recognizable film quotes in the English-speaking world, and for good reason -- even if, oddly, the movie wasn't a box office success. It really has stood the test of time and reached a broad range of audiences; I've met very few people who haven't seen it, and I've met exactly zero people who didn't love it.

The Princess Bride is only a few years younger than I am, and it was a staple of my childhood -- I went through several phases where I watched it every single day. My dad's favorite greeting for me was, "What's up, Buttercup?" and my mom is, to this day, convinced that I will wear a wedding dress like the one in the movie. (She will have to be disappointed. This is New England, not medieval England...)

As a result, I'm one of those (kind of irritating) people who knows every bit of dialogue and every move of the sword fight choreography by heart. TJ always switches the channel when it comes on TV because I just can't resist quoting along at certain parts, but that's fine with me because I know exactly which parts they've whittled away to make it fit into the time slot (and it irritates me to no end). It's the DVD version or nada, my friends.

This year marks the cult classic's 25th anniversary, and to celebrate, the Brattle Theatre is showing it this weekend. I encourage you all to see it and get yourself a case of the warm fuzzies.

I'll always be delighted by the fact that the man who plays Inigo shares my first name... and by that amazing moustache and crazy pirate hair.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 6

According to family legend, I taught myself how to read at age three. I don't specifically remember how old I was, but I do remember sitting in the living room of a house I barely lived in with a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, something clicking -- some conscious understanding that all those little letters meant something, and I could decode their message.

I have a late-August birthday, which meant that, when it came time for kindergarten, my parents could choose whether to send me on or wait another year. They opted for the latter. Although I think ultimately this was the right choice -- after all, even at nearly-nineteen, I didn't feel ready for college, either -- it also led to a lot of boredom in school. I was automatically placed in the Academically Gifted program, but it was rare that the "special" assignments interested me; instead, I turned to books.

I always read books that were several grade levels ahead of me, often going to my older brother's reading lists for suggestions. I truly loved to read. You could stand a foot away from me and loudly say my name, but if I was absorbed in a book, I didn't hear you. I read constantly, often camping out in the living room even on beautiful summer days so I could finish le livre du jour.

When I hit high school, something changed. I think part of it was the much more pronounced pressure to earn good grades, but a lot of it was logistical: I participated in multiple weekly dance classes, I worked fifteen to twenty-five hours a week at a retail job, I was in honors and AP classes, and I had to be at school at 7:15 am. I don't know if the root cause was anxiety or undiagnosed A.D.D. or exhaustion or some combination of the above, but after awhile, I sort of gave up; I didn't finish half my reading assignments for school, so where the hell would I find time to read for pleasure?

It only got worse in college. By the time I graduated, I had nearly forgotten how to get lost in a story the way I once did. I still read occasionally, of course -- Kurt Vonnegut while working the ticket booth at Bill's Bar; D.H. Lawrence and Gabriel Garcia Marquez on the T; Aldous Huxley on the beaches of Thailand -- but I always got distracted or fell asleep before the chapter ended. I started many books that I never finished.

Koh Ang Thong, Thailand; June, 2008.

There is one book, however, that I did manage to finish for school, one that I have read innumerable times and that never fails to remind me of why I love to read: Le Petit Prince. I had never heard of it until I read it in my senior French class in high school, but it completely captivated my heart from the first page.

So once I'd crossed over into the world of tattoos with my best friend just before entering college, it didn't take me long to come up with my next piece of body art.

As I get older -- and thus relate more to the narrator than the hero -- I only love the book more. I'm so completely obsessed with it, in fact, that I decided to be the little prince for Halloween. Admittedly, not everyone got the reference, but those who did were delighted, which kept a perpetual grin on my face both nights I wore the costume. I don't know how I'll top this next Halloween -- or how I'll find a way to express my infinite love for this book any more than I already have.

Top: me on Halloween (with TJ's/my dog, Memphis, as the tamed fox); 2011. Bottom: the illustration on which the costume was based.

For now, I plan to expose everyone, adult and kid alike, who has never read this absolutely marvelous book to its timeless charm. I mean, seriously y'all, it's kind of perfect. If you're reading this and you have no idea what I'm talking about... I beg you, read it!

For now, here's a preview (part of which is a translation of one of the quotations in my tattoo)...

"Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."