The beauty and total weird-ness of “engaged”

So for those of you that are late to the party… I’m engaged.

Yes, I know.

Start praying to your God because the apocalypse is near.  Ha.

But really.

Thirty-one days ago, I said “Yes” to a guy who kneeled down beside our bed with a big diamond ring.  While I sat there, makeup-less and sporting bulldog pajama pants, completely stunned.  It was without a doubt, the easiest “Yes” I’ve ever given in my life.  Granted, I would’ve much preferred to look stunningly beautiful in some lavish treehouse where stardust was sprinkling from the sky…but hey… it was still sweet.  And caught me completely off guard.  Quite the feat.

And the beauty of it was, I never had even a moment’s hesitation.

Yes.

This is it.

This is my human.  I found him.  And even better…

My human WANTS to be tied with my crazy ass for the rest of his life…like, he thinks HE’S hit the jackpot with ME.  Clearly, he’s insane.  Lucky for me.

And it’s been a blissful month.  Strange, in some regards.  And definitely, a huge reminder to myself (and those around me) that I am rather far removed from the typical girl’s frame of mind with being “engaged”.

First of all, please let me preface this with… I AM SO HAPPY WITH THIS MAN!  He is the only person I could ever say/think/feel ‘forever’ about.  He’s the weirdest, most generous, down for an adventure dude I’ve ever known and he makes me better without ever asking it of me.  I literally cannot believe that someone knows all my bullshit…my hot mess of a past…this “wrecking ball to the self-esteem” dream I continue to chase…the balance in my checking account currently…my obsession with my larger than life family…supporting that I live in another state 50% of the time…the reality that I’ll never love his dog half as much as he does…my inability to apologize most of the time…(you catch my drift)…and yet…

He will stand before anyone and everyone and promise me the best and the rest of his life.

Holy shit, ya’ll.

Just typing that (and the 3 glasses of wine I’ve had) is making me tear up majorly at the moment.  I never thought I’d see the day that I’d get engaged.  And to be completely honest with you, I was more than okay with that.  Because a ring on my finger was never a part of “the dream” (just ask any guy I’ve ever dated/family/friends).  I never envisioned what a wedding would look like.  (Or owning a house.  Or having children.  Or basically, anything that a normal adult would see for their lives.)  Simply put, that was never in my “check” boxes.

So to be wearing a ring of my finger for the last 31 days, and to have not lost/misplaced it yet, is truly wild.  That being said…

Being engaged is fucking weird.

People congratulate me constantly…for what?  I mean, I too am happy that I have this guy and that I’m no longer wasting time getting wasted with douchebags.  Because those that know my story know that it ain’t been the prettiest.  I’ve been through some real shit.

But to congratulate me feels odd…like I accomplished something super impressive…the impressive part was finally allowing someone deserving into my world and loving him back.  The ring is just a beautiful bonus.  But even still…

I’m only part way to the finish line by Pinterest’s standards.  

Because apparently there’s this whole wedding thing to plan/obsess/lose my shit over.

And the unavoidable “so you’re going to have children?” conversation.

Let me say this.

I can’t not roll my eyes at the word “fiancé”.  Nor do I care about a date, a dress, a venue, color schemes, the selection of the wedding party, keeping my nails well-manicured to show off my ring, picking out baby names, or anything else that isn’t about one thing and one thing only…

Me & him.  Him & I.

The ones doing forever.

So yes,  I did wait almost a week before I announced my engagement on social media.  Yes, we still haven’t changed our Facebook relationship status.  Yes, you will have to ask to see my ring because I won’t think to flaunt it for everyone I see.  Yes, it’s true, we don’t have a date or a plan yet and we are totally okay with that.  And yes, if him and I were only thinking of ourselves, we would’ve eloped yesterday.

And yes…the moment I realized I didn’t care about the attention or validation like I thought I was supposed to was when I knew…

This shit is real, this is right…

This is cemetery plots side by side.

Bring it on, baby.

And a whole-hearted “THANK YOU” to the followers of this journey…sweet Lord, we’ve seen it all and I love you for loving me through it ❤

 

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“the music thing”

“the music thing”

So, for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to commit to “mental health mornings” to start my day.  Aside from waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to work out, I’ve been trying my best to take advantage of these early morning rises to “check in” with myself too.  So after our work-out, and my boyfriend showers and heads off the work, I sit out on the front porch and read up on the book, “Jesus Calling” with my journal in my lap. Also, for the past 2 weeks, I’ve been keeping up (or at least, attempting to) with Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience series, “Desire and Destiny” through their website.  Now, I wouldn’t say that meditation/yoga/mantras/affirmations and all this are necessarily my “thing”…but I’m trying.  Why?  Because stagnation and I can no longer be comfort buddies. 

Not that I’m stuck, per se, but the need to expand my mind and get out of unhealthy or limiting thought patterns I’ve become privy to in the past has become increasingly apparent as of late.  I am embarking on a complete reintroduction in the next couple of months and it’s scary, to say the least.  New music, new branding (because apparently that’s a thing in the music business), new documentary, new message, new me…well, at least, an evolving me.
To put myself so front and center for so many to hear/see/judge feels equally part paralyzing and empowering. 

It has been a long time since I’ve been in “Artist Mode” aka “a bright ‘effin spotlight to see if you’re really as good as you think you are”…  Which is crazy considering I’ve always been “doing the music thing” as so many people casually refer to it as.  Even worse, when people literally ask the question every music person hates more than politics, “So are you still doing ‘the music thing’?”  For those of us writing songs, singing demos, waiting tables, driving Ubers, singing background vocals, taking meetings even though we’re not exactly sure what for most times, slowly saving up money for a photo shoot or a recording session, trying to figure out how to create our own website, constantly needing to replace a roommate or two, physically attempting to make our social media numbers higher, booking our own shows, playing our latest creation around town with the hopes that a bigger artist somehow hears it and records it, figuring out how to release new music so that more than just our family and friends think it’s good (but also hoping that they’ll start thinking we’re actually doing something with our lives now), checking our bank accounts and feeling depressed every time so now we check it even less, going to shows and trying to get a handle on our social anxiety as we also try introducing ourselves to someone who might be someone someday, attempting to rise above the rejection of the “cool clique” of music biz peeps when they ignore us because we aren’t “somebody” yet, finding the motivation and passion to keep going when it’d be easier to just give in and give up…

Why yes, we are ALL still “doing the music thing”, thank you for asking.

On top of that, now I’ll also be releasing an album that’s been tied up for awhile now and has me feeling all sorts of nervous and ready and like, “Holy shit, I hope people don’t think this sucks”.  And with that release, I’ll be reliving some painful shit because the album is literally a live recording of some pretty dark places I was in at the time.  Sprinkle on top of that, taking a bunch of photos and videos and trying my best to look skinny and pretty and young.  The cherry on top being, obsessing over how many plays, views, “likes”, follows you got that week…because that’s “Artist Mode” headspace…and once you’ve had it off for awhile, it feels a weeee bit overwhelming when you turn it back “on”, HA!

 

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Not that I never “un-became” an artist.  I’ve always been one.  Literally, from the time I was 3 years old and belting The Judds from every family member’s fireplace stage.  Or at 4-5 years old when I voluntarily secluding myself on a daily basis at pre-school to draw crayon pictures of a stage with red curtains, a redhead holding a guitar, standing in front of a mic.  Or when I was 8-9 years old and riding my bike in secret to the lake, where I’d sit with a notebook and write songs and poems.  Ages 13-17, when I was up until 1am the morning of a show, burning CDs and printing/slapping on sticky labels to hand out to everyone that would listen to me.  To when I graduated high school and couldn’t move to Nashville fast enough, with $1000 from my graduation party and a 1997 Ford Escort full of clothes with a little too much Little Mermaid (and Wynonna) memorabilia.  To every song I’ve written since, some of which felt like if I didn’t get out of me, those feelings/those words would eat me alive.

These things don’t go away.  They aren’t temporary, they aren’t a phase.  You don’t outgrow them.  It’s embedded in you.  You can attempt to suppress it if you’re lucky.  You can follow alternative roads.  You can chalk it up to a daydream or “that was another life”.  There are definitely days I wish I knew how to do that.  There are days I’d love to know what it’s like to have a career in a field with a salary and health benefits.  Or what it’d be like to have a little diva crawling around my house, the spitting image of me, teaching her to sing Carole King songs before she learns to talk.

But that isn’t me.  It was never me.  A wise woman once told me, “You can’t make an elephant a giraffe.”  I think I’m the elephant in this scenario…?  Ha.

Even from a music stand-point, being “musically active” and being in the “Artist” headspace are two very different things, and it’s been an internal tug-of-war for me the last few years.  I thought that I could quench this thirst by constantly singing…whether it was with background vocals for other people on stage and in the studio, writing songs, singing demos, being around music-makers, etc. etc.  Turns out, I’m still thirsty.  Because as wonderful and inspiring as all of that is, it’s only half of the dream.  And I know A LOT of killer female vocalists that will agree with me on that.  Not because we want to be famous or win a Grammy…but because we have our own thing with it’s own fire and that comes with a burning desire to share it, despite how terrifying it seems sometimes.

And the reality of me extinguishing any of the dreams inside of me are virtually impossible.  It doesn’t happen.  Believe me, I’ve tried in the past.  For the sake of true transparency here, I tried a lot… one toxic relationship after another, co-dependency, drinking, going broke, thinking the absolute worst of myself until I made my thoughts a stinging reality at some points, surrounding myself with the wrong crowd, losing confidence in my gift, not loving or respecting myself enough to forgive my missteps, exhausting myself “keeping busy” rather than moving forward, causing my family to borderline stage an intervention, doubting that anyone would even listen or support me if I tried to step out again, and at least 271 other ways I tried to find a way “out” of my true calling.

But guess what…?

I lived through it all, SO much better for it.

I lived through it all, with a new-found appreciation that I still have the option for my calling…which, is more like a screaming than a calling these days.

And with that, it’s become abundantly clear that there was really only one choice for me all along.

The music thing.

Twitter: @itsraywilliams

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(All the props to my co-writer & musical genius friend, Bonnie Baker for her cool office/writing space vibes in this photo!)

everything in the middle of nowhere.

everything in the middle of nowhere.

It’s a weird thing.

I have literally thought to myself and/or said out loud to others, “I really feel like blogging” and yet… nothing.  For quite awhile now.

That is always a huge indicator for me.  I write when I have something that needs to be said.  When the desire to write my heart, read it back, and allow myself to process is more overwhelming than anything going on externally.  And sometimes, there’s just too much that needs to be said.  So, instead of flushing them out and tackling these topics one by one, I stay silent.  The chaos stays internal.  The blog stays unwritten.

I’m currently 3 songs written, 2 hours of Golden Girls watched, and a bottle of wine consumed today so… here we go.

I left Detroit on April 22nd.  That means, it’s been a whole 30 days since I’ve seen my dogs, my family, my porch swing, and my bed.  It has been 20 days since I have seen my boyfriend.  This probably seems extreme to a lot of you.  To some of you musician/gypsy spirit types, this seems relatively normal.  I rest somewhere between the two. 

I make sacrifices all the way around, some days seeming more worthwhile than others.  The documentary that initially prompted my split location finally wrapped filming 5 weeks ago, so now the “I have to be in Michigan for this” is up.  Clearly, life is much different than it was 18 months ago when I made the decision to give up my ever-dramatic, forever busy, at times volatile, full-time living (and distracting myself from) “the dream” in Nashville.

I now live in an “old lady bungalow” in the suburbs with the greatest man I’ve ever known and all of our doggie children.  I have a baby niece and nephew that I’m completely obsessed with.  I have a Granny that turns 90 years old in August and lives 5 miles away from the rest of my family.  I have an Aunt that probably doesn’t “need” me, but regardless, I feel called to be there for since the loss of my Godfather.  I have a few friends (new and old) that truly “get me” and I’m grateful.  The desire to create music and share it with Detroit remains strong.  I’m “one of them” and I yearn to contribute in a way I haven’t just yet.

However, Nashville brought me up.  It’s brought out the very best and the very worst in me.  I’m now at a place where I can recognize where I was and who I’ll never be again, no matter how alluring it may seem at times.  I am not that girl anymore, praise God.  And I’m SO thankful that I can have that realization NOW and not on my 2nd stint in rehab or with a couple kids under my belt.  Nashville, for all it’s hardships, is also where so much of my light is…it’s where I’m the most creative, the most productive, the most inspired.  Re-working my boundaries and my social circle has been a lot, but I’ve already seen the benefits.  I’m still working on eliminating the fog of self-defeating and self-sabotaging thoughts that held me down for so long, but I know the vision is getting clearer everyday.  I’m not the same Rachel I was 18 months ago and the Rachel in Nashville today genuinely reflects that.

And yet, all this time and traveling that has taken place since I left my little domestic haven on Baker Avenue in Michigan weeks ago… somehow, my lines have been blurred, scribbled, and stomped on repeatedly.  Two trips to Florida and 2 weeks in Nashville later, my sense of “peace” has been relatively non-existent for a month now.  There’s definitely a few people I could blame for this, but what’s the point?  It’s only partially their fault.  Because at the end of the day, I could’ve handled their poor behavior and these toxic situations differently.  And I’m disappointed that I didn’t.  In a couple of these scenarios, I thought keeping neutral and “cool” would be for the best, for myself and the others traveling with me.  It wasn’t.  So I ended up feeling like a doormat and allowing a few people that I love to feel the same.  Another scenario weighing heavy on my heart tonight is where I completely unloaded EVERYTHING, without ever coming up for air.  And regardless if those things were on my heart, I’m disappointed that I allowed those buttons to be pushed so severely.

It’s all left me feeling exhausted.

So yesterday morning, slightly hungover (and definitely sleep-deprived from what is now considered a rare, “girls night” out downtown), I picked up my (nearly) 90 year old Granny from Nashville International Airport at 8:30AM.  I immediately took her to the Cracker Barrel where I tried to nurse us both back to life with biscuits and a pot of coffee.  I then proceeded to drive 90 minutes to her hometown of Hohenwald, TN, where I’d be dropping her off for a few days with her youngest (and last-surviving) brother, my Great Uncle Johnny and his wife, Aunt Lillie Mae.  As tired as I was, I enjoyed the scenic drive with my ‘side-kick’.  I hung on every story that my Granny’s hoarse voice tried to tell me of anything and everything.

When we arrived, I stayed most of the day with zero distraction.  You see, Hohenwald is a “No Service” zone for Sprint.  Not “Extended”, not 1 bar if you stand at the end of the drive…no, it’s “No Service” for at least 20 minutes in every direction.  It stormed pretty hard for a majority of the afternoon, so that aided in my long visit.  A few times, I just sat out on the porch and listened to this beautifully vast country-side get pummeled by rain.  When it cleared up hours later (and I’d eaten about 10 pounds worth of good ol’ country cooking), I hit the road alone back to Nashville.

I was thankful for the solo drive.  I typically use that time to explore, get a little lost, make a dead-stop in the middle of the street just to take a photo, admire all the farms/random country stores/abandoned houses/gas stations, and know that GPS isn’t going to work 95% of the time.  And this time was no different.  I definitely got lost without my navigation working.

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It’s funny how that happens…

We rarely allow ourselves to get lost.

We rarely give ourselves permission or allow time for exploration.

I’m forever grateful for my drives to and from Hohenwald, even if it’s just for that.

Honestly, it’s a spiritual experience.  I soak it all in.  The scenery is always mystifying to me.  My heart is literally pulled in.  It was probably on my 3rd stop in the middle of the road to snap a photo that I realized that THIS WAS EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED.  The peace I SO craved with these Florida beaches, a “vacation” from the dogs and my family life was so completely and utterly unfulfilling for a reason.

Nothingness.  No phone service.  No social media.  No making plans.  No time-crunch.  No traveling with others.  No worrying what others would be thinking or doing or texting.  No passive-aggressive bullshit.  Just shutting the fuck up and taking it in.  And it happened.  The peace was unreal.  And then, in the midst of trying to figure out which direction I was effin going down on some back country road, there was this….

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And I thanked God at least a dozen times.

And then I drove directly to Kingston Springs, completely bypassing Nashville and the “night out” I had originally planned to have.   I went to bed at 10PM and for the first time in forever, I SLEPT IN…until 11AM at that, my first night of more than 5 hours of sleep in weeks.

Turns out, you can really work some shit out in the middle of nowhere.

I don’t know, maybe getting lost is the best way to find your way.

 

-RW

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Burden or light.

www.RachelWilliamsOnline.com

I don’t know when it happened exactly.  I just know it happened.

It wasn’t overnight.  It wasn’t one catastrophic event.  It wasn’t someone’s words that lingered.  It wasn’t one specific loss that did me in.

So I guess it was an endless series of things…life…that didn’t seem all that noticeable at the time but “out of nowhere”, somehow, it all culminated into a big ball of everything.  Defeat.  Exhaustion.  Emptiness.  Fear.

I lost faith in myself.

I lost trust in not just a dream, but in my purpose. 

No one understands the weight and the weightlessness of someone’s dream except the one dreaming it.  They can try to explain it to you, the highs and lows…You can nod your head and say, “I get it” but we both know you’re lying.  Because someone’s vision for their life is theirs and theirs alone.  The words will always fall flat to the most hopeful of dreams and ambitions.  My story will not resonate in your soul like it resonates in mine.  That is fact.  And each of us can choose to see that as a burden or as a light.  In my life, I’ve switched back and forth on how I view mine.  And as of lately, it’s been on the heavier side.

And as I sit here on this office couch in Kingston Springs, Tennessee, the reality of my situation is sinking me into these couch cushions more than my big ass.

I cannot ignore it.

I cannot turn off the voice inside.

There is no fire extinguisher to put out whatever is trying to burn brighter inside of me.  I’ve looked for one.  Whether it was in a bar, or in a bed, or holding new nieces and nephews and trying to convince myself that “This wouldn’t be so bad”…  It didn’t work.

So, I have a choice.

We all have a choice.

Burden or light.

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us quit dreaming.  It became too hard.  Too unattainable.  Or, you gave up on yourself before you even started.  Or, you turned 40 and you deemed yourself “too old”.  The world, your family, your significant other told you there was no security in it and you believed them.  Whether it was a teacher who once wanted to move to Hollywood or a plumber who dreamed of being a writer all through high school.  You went another way because you were unsure.  And it’s not to say you don’t live a happy life now.  Your life is valid and important.  We need the teachers, the bartenders, the taxi drivers, the construction workers, and so on to survive.  But maybe you had other aspirations once upon a time.  And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay for you to still have them today…even if it’s not what’s bringing in your paycheck.

Being in Nashville the last few days has been a very eye-opening experience.  Living here 50/50 is good for me. I’m starting to see it differently, literally and figuratively.  I’m having different conversations.  And even the conversations that might be the same, I’m choosing to take away different information from them.  And the thought that keeps nailing me in the back of the head is this… the dreamer’s dream is as big or small as they make it.  It’s as heavy or as light as you want it to be.

I don’t know who/when/where it says that you can’t pursue whatever it is you want to.  Or that there’s an expiration date/age for going after something with all your heart.  Or that you can only choose “one thing” and stick with it until you get rich or you die of a broken heart and a shriveled liver.  Really?  Those are my only options?  I call bullshit.

This weekend I was humbled by a few conversations with good friends.

I have confessed my insecurities and my crippling self-doubt about finally releasing my new music and stepping into the “artist” role again.  I have teared up admitting that I’m afraid to pick up the phone or shoot the email to ask for help because I feel like no one cares anymore.  It took too long.  I’ve paralyzed myself by attaching everything to this big vision of how I thought it should be…all the ducks that needed to be in a row…that now that it’s taken longer than it was supposed to, I’m somehow inadequate.  My fear became too all-consuming for me to commit and pull the trigger.

Their response to my bleeding heart confessions…?

Do it.  Write it.  Sing it.  And they will come.  The time is now. 

How uncomplicated & undramatic is that?!  After this long & drawn out internal war I’ve been waging in my head that has drained me completely…THAT is the solution?!

Yup.

1st conversation:  One of my dear friends is a photographer here in Nashville.  An incredible photographer at that.  She called me up and treated me to breakfast because she wanted to ask for my help.  At 32 years old, she wants to start writing songs.  Can’t sing, can’t play any instruments, but wanted to follow this creative path because it called to her.  She’s not looking for it to produce a hit song or a publishing deal…she just wants to write.  I was so blown away by this concept that when she asked if I’d help her, I answered with a resounding, “Fuck yes.”  So the next day, she came out, I helped piece together one of her tunes and she was over the moon.  She’s still on such a high from absorbing information I’d shared with her about song structure and the business that she can’t stop writing…or singing my praises.  And it’s just like, holy shit… how brave that she doesn’t know what she’s doing yet but she’s just doing it anyway.  I used to be her.  And if she can be her and not feel afraid to dream new dreams, then what the hell is my excuse…?

2nd conversation:  Friend of mine has been in town over a decade, singing and writing his ass off.  He networks like no one I’ve ever seen.  His hair, his clothes, his voice…all loud and proud and he gives off the vibe that he gives zero fucks what anyone has to say about it.  Sitting down for coffee with him yesterday, he caught me up on his journey.  After over a decade in this town, playing & hosting writer’s rounds and performing showcases as a solo artist, he decided to change it up and form a band to play downtown Broadway every Friday night, after never playing/aspiring to play downtown before.  And not just “play on Broadway”, but audition, rehearse, and put together a BOMB ASS SHOW that no one else is doing downtown and that people are flipping out over.  He posts videos of rehearsals, etc. unapologetically and people are loving it…he’s exposing his talent in a way he hadn’t before and it’s awesome.  Why?  Because he felt like it.  Oh, and he also started his own clothing/styling thaaang and he’s KILLING IT.  So who’s to say that “the dream” has to follow X, Y, Z to be recognized and appreciated…?!

3rd conversation:  Yesterday I attempted a Sunday Funday, brunch and all, and it didn’t go quite as I had imagined.  By 3pm, my friends had other plans to tend to so I was left with a full belly, a couple of vodka sodas in me, and nowhere to be.  As I was driving back to the house and passing through Music Row, a friend/my favorite co-writer called me up and asked what I was up to.  I immediately spit out, “Meet me at the office.  Now.  We are writing a song on a Sunday Funday.”  So we did.  I’d had this song idea in my head for a few days and I guess I felt it hit too close to home to sit down and flush out by myself.  I needed backup.  Her and I are good about doing that for each other, ha.  During our write/therapy session we started talking about how things in Nashville have changed so much in all the years we’ve been here.  We talked about the hustle.  We talked about the lack of the hustle as compared to some of these ‘newbies’.  We talked about the new crop of writers and artists coming here and how they are making things happen and how it’s easy to feel forgotten if you let yourself go there.  She works harder than anyone I know.  She’s working the graveyard shift at a “real job” so that she can try to pay her bills, takes a short nap during the day, and then wakes up and writes songs/goes to shows before she has to go work again with a few hours of sleep under her belt.  I don’t know dedication like that, I really don’t.  But she does it.  And when I watch her win CMA Song of the Year in the future, everyone in this town is going to celebrate the girl behind that dedication.  I told her, “What if we moved forward acting like we’re fresh off the boat too.  What if the stars in our eyes still existed, we just let life cloud them over.”  And then we wrote a really good song.

It’s not a prerequisite to have a tortured heart or be a pessimist to chase dreams.  We choose that on our own.  And how we beat ourselves up is farrrr worse than what anyone out there has ever said/thought about us.  So I hope we can get over it.  Because the alternative is to stop chasing.  And I don’t know about you, but I’m quite positive that I have no other skill sets and I’m miserable doing anything else soooo…this is it.  It’s time I start acting like it again.

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What is mine…

Yards.  Lawns.

People take such pride in them, right?  Mowing, watering, landscaping, gardening.  Personally, I never got into it.  However, I do remember how I enjoyed using my push lawn mower in my first rental house. **See photo below for proof** I was about 21 years old, renting a one bedroom, 500 square foot house on a dead end street in East Nashville.  Mowing my lawn was my way of saying to the world, “Look at me, I’m grown up.  I’m independent.”  Never mind the fact that I was broke, watching the only 4 DVDs I owned on a little 15 inch TV (that had an attached VCR) from childhood.  But hot damn, I mowed my lawn.  That is…until my brand new lawn mower got stolen out of my backyard shed one weekend I was out of town.  How East Nashville…  I never loved mowing the lawn like that again.

It’s funny how seemingly insignificant little memories like that pop up and completely relate to your present-day life.   How, you ask?

Because, in this exact moment, I am not taking ownership of my yard.  Nope.  I’m not tending to it, watching it, taking responsibility for it 90% of the time.  You know what I AM doing?  Obsessing about everyone else’s yard…who should be allowed on it and who shouldn’t be, where they need to water it, how to make it prettier.  All the while, my yard goes to shit.  But hey, at least I’m being a good neighbor, right?

Hopefully at this point, you’re getting my analogy.  If you’re not, maybe you should stop smoking so much weed.  Ha.

Boundaries are a real and essential thing.  A thing that I’m forcing myself to acknowledge, understand, and set firmly for myself, regardless of my past.  Because if we’re being honest here, my boundaries have been about as sturdy as a house burning to the ground.  Oddly enough, I never knew the problem was as severe as it was until the last few months…

The moment I sat still long enough, I felt it.  The weight.  Like a 12 pound dumbbell, just hanging out on my chest.  I can still breathe, I can still function, but fuck… it’s starting to irritate me and upset me in a way that I can no longer talk myself out of it.  And anyone that knows me knows that I can definitely talk myself into or out of anything, ha.  So now we have an issue that has to be addressed or else, I might end up on a episode of “Dateline”.

Factors into this new “boundary awareness”:

  • Being only a 50 minute drive from your family instead of the 8 hours of distance you’ve had for the last 10 years
  • Moving in with my boyfriend
  • Constantly travelling back and forth between Nashville and Michigan every few weeks
  • Trying to remain friends with people I was close to when I was a hot mess
  • Having physical and emotional space to re-evaluate some of the people I surround myself with, and  yet I still manage to get stressed out
  • Adopting a puppy that has NO SENSE of personal space…nope, none.

If I could tell you the countless hours I’ve spent worrying/discussing/trying to find a solution for someone else’s health/finances/terrible exes they keep going back to/drug use/lack of sleep/car situation/relationship with their parents/retirement/toxic friends they hang around/Tinder hook ups and so on…you’d roll up a joint for me. And then hand me some Ambien.

I always justified it as one of the following, “But it’s family…She has nobody else to talk to…I’m the only positive influence he has…If I don’t help, no one else will…She looks up to me…He could have a heart attack if I don’t intervene…If it were me, I’d need someone to help me like this…Oh, she’d do the same for me…” and a million other reasons.

But the truth is…

I’m tired.  People WILL live without me trying to solve their problems.  People WILL figure it out one way or another.  People WILL let me down and not come through for me like I have for them.  I too will live.  Friends/family should not expect me to carry their burdens nor should I so willingly volunteer to do so. 

I’m literally reading a book right now called “Boundaries”.  Real life.  A therapist I went to see a few times, roughly 7 years ago, recommended it to me.  I was grieving from a rather devastating break up (6 months later) so when he made this recommendation, I drove to Borders (yes, we still had one of those then) and purchased the book.  I read the first chapter and then never thought about it again.  Shortly after, I got back together with the ex that pummeled my heart, resulting in me ceasing my sessions with said therapist.  If that isn’t a prime example of boundary misuse, I don’t know what is.  The more I read, the more I talk about it, the more I realize that my boundaries have been blurred my entire life.

That stops.  Effective immediately.

I have a yard.  It has a wooden fence all around it, with a little front gate.  The bad shit needs to be kicked out of my yard.  The good stuff stays for me to tend to, inside my fence.  The gate serves to close & lock on toxic people /situations/ways of thinking that don’t show respect to my yard and my fence.  The gate will only open for love.

I need to own my yard again.  

I need to learn to be the neighbor that smiles and waves and tries to keep her dogs from shitting in your yard.  And even if/when they do, I will still not come over to your yard.  Boundaries, y’all  🙂228361_6078485580_2108_n1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I talked myself out of it.”

It’s 2AM and I can’t sleep.

There is nothing particularly wrong.  Sometimes the brain just wants to create…and in my case, that means I’m writing.

It’s been over a month since my last blog.  I’ve thought about sitting down and writing every single day since then.  I’d take my laptop in the car with me wherever I’d go…including a couple trips to Nashville in December and over New Year’s.  But I talked myself out of it each time.  I’d find myself responding to an email, stalking my Facebook feed, or looking up which crazy-colored yoga pants I wanted to order from Kate Hudson.  While I type this, I realize that the words “I talked myself out of it” feels a bit like a Nerf gun fired to my face.

Because I do that.  A lot. 

**Talk myself out of things, and get nailed in the face with Nerf darts.

Whether it’s going out of my comfort zone to talk to someone I don’t know, sing a song I’m not sure I remember the lyrics to, go inside Chase bank and make them reverse their ridiculous maintenance charges, purchase the plane ticket, wake up in time for that kickboxing class, apologize to my boyfriend, or write a fucking blog.  I’ve probably “talked myself out of” some of the best “could’ve been” times because I didn’t trust it, for one reason or another.

It’s January.
Everyone’s at the gym.  Everyone is swearing to call their Grandpa more, lose 14.8 pounds, read the Bible, quit smoking, etc etc…And I wish them all luck.  When the ball dropped this year, I was still in horror of the Mariah Carey fiasco. (I don’t think I recovered for days afterward, if we’re being honest.)  While enjoying mimosas with a couple of my favorite gays on a New Year’s Day brunch, it dawned on me that I hadn’t made a resolution.  Champagne aided in me never making a resolution that day.  I wasn’t ready. 

Because with this new year/new start, it meant leaving 2016 behind.

There was much to love… I fell in love/stayed in love/am still in love with an incredible man.  My two sisters gave me a baby niece and nephew over the summer.  Two of my best friends got married, and my childhood bestfriend welcomed a baby girl right around my birthday.  I finished filming a music documentary coming out later this year.  I wrote & recorded songs that I’m extremely proud of.  I’ve sang in the studio and on the stage with some of my musical heroes.  My boyfriend and I adopted a sheltie puppy and named her Blanche (Devereaux), after my favorite Golden Girl.  I spent time with the ocean, the Great Lakes, New York City, the West Coast, and got to take my 89 year old Granny to Nashville to see her family twice.  I read more books and wrote more songs/poems/stories/blogs than I have in years.

There was much I could have done without too.
There was death.  There was a cancer diagnosis for my uncle.  There were internal battles within myself that felt like a Target bag over the head.  There were growing aches and pains for the girl and the life I was growing out of.  There were days of crippling self-doubt. There were moments of family drama/crisis that made me feel like I was imploding.  There were career/timeline setbacks.

There was life.  There was loss.

Nothing better portrayed this than my last blog entry.

On December 2, 2016, I wrote a long-winded blog about the significance of my 1st nephew, Nolan and his entrance into this world 6 years ago.  Hundreds of you read it/commented/”liked”…  It felt like such a release to share part of mine & my family’s story with you.

On that same day, December 2, 2016, my boyfriend’s best friend passed away.

We didn’t find out until the following night.

“Unexpected” is what they called it, but it felt much more severe than that.  When you’re having some beer and chicken pot pie at a neighborhood dive bar with someone, and 24 hours later, that person is gone… “unexpected” doesn’t begin to cover it.

EJ Grossi died at 34 years old.

I didn’t know EJ very well.  Him and my boyfriend had over a decade’s worth of friendship.  EJ actually lived with my boyfriend for awhile before/at the beginning of us dating.  When things started getting more serious, EJ moved out and me & my dogs moved in.  My boyfriend and EJ resumed their “best friend status” and were always hanging out when I’d go out of town, mostly just sitting at the house and talking.  He loved our dogs.  EJ was quirky and weird in the best way, super spontaneous, unassumingly thoughtful, and truly loved his people…and always wanted his people to know his people.  Case in point, when my boyfriend & I hung out with him the night before he died, he handed me 2 CD’s there in the bar.  It was music by a couple of his friends and he said he thought of me and that I might enjoy a listen.  He also said if I thought the music sucked, I could use them as coasters, ha.

His funeral was surreal.  There were so many people and never a good place to stand that was “out of the way” of everyone else.  Looking at photos of him on the memory boards was numbing and shocking at the same time.  He looked just like me, just like any of us.  There were tears and laughs as everyone reminisced with each other.  I couldn’t attach to any of it.  I just fixated on my boyfriend the entire time…wanting to scoop him up if I detected any slight sign of an emotional collapse.  I was prepared to save him.  I wanted to save him.

I also wanted to cry.  But I “talked myself out it”. 

I’ve cried since then.  Only a few times, and always by myself.  I don’t know if it’s my distain for crying…or my fear that my boyfriend will sink into depression if he sees how I affected I am…or that I don’t know/don’t want to think about all the things that are surfacing inside of me because of this loss.  I still haven’t figured it out.  Which is why, every time I thought about blogging, I didn’t know where to start.  It seemed inappropriate to write about someone I didn’t know very well or for very long.  Because, as you know, I like to talk myself out of things.

But somewhere, in the last couple days, I started to grasp that it’s okay to speak of things you don’t understand.  Because if you don’t speak it, how will you ever understand it?   I need to remind myself of that.  My feelings are real.  EJ’s presence was/continues to be real.  My boyfriend’s memories are real.

I think if this gut-punching end to 2016 is teaching me anything about what a new year of life to live should really mean, it would be…
Quit fucking talking myself out of it.

Rest in peace, EJ.

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The ultimate “swipe right”

Around this time last year, I was asked out on date by a dude on Tinder, who’s caption read, “It’s getting cold outside.  Looking for a girlfriend for the winter.”  True story.

A girl with my dating track record really had nothing to lose.

I had JUST relocated to Michigan for a few months to work on a music project.  I had no social life outside of my family.  I’d just ended an 8 month turbulent relationship.  Detroit was frozen over and there weren’t enough bulky sweaters or Ugg boots to keep me warm.  I was the perfect candidate for Tinder.

I arrived 40 minutes late to my first date with Jon.
He was just relieved I showed up and that I wasn’t a dude.

It was a pleasant night, especially considering I had low expectations.  Tinder does that to you.  Well, no, dating does that to you,  ha.  We had dinner and drinks and walked to a local vodka distillery in the freezing cold.  When the night was over, there was a hug goodnight and we drove to our separate homes.

When he followed up the next day to make plans for a 2nd date, I won’t lie, I hesitated.  The whole “seeing someone” thing did not appeal to me.  Been there, done that, caught on fire one too many times.  I’m good…I’m only looking for attention.

I know I’m too much.  I’m loud and unfiltered, exceptionally weird as shit AND I work in music.  I like to bare my midriff and bar hop any day of the week.  I casually “date” and own (laugh at) every single dramatic/scandalous/entertaining story that comes with that.  I’m independent, I don’t know how to communicate through any vessel other than sarcasm and I’m too tired to give a shit about guys anymore.  The few guys I ever actually called a boyfriend ultimately ended up royally mind-@#*!ing me and inspiring my entire songwriting catalog.

And yet, there I was in November of 2015…600 miles away from those disasters.  Those stories.  Those bars, that scene, those exes.  I’m older now, it’s starting to feel less cute.  I’m also in a completely different part of the country now.  So what was going to be my excuse?   Did I want the path of destruction to run north and south…Or did I want to do it differently…Am I really not going to go out with this guy a few more times because of who I’ve been 600 miles south?  I was off the hamster wheel.  I was in Michigan.  No hamsters live through Michigan winters.

I’m not going to say I gave Jon a chance.  Because in all honesty, it wasn’t HIM that I was doubting at all.  It was me.  So I will say that from our 2nd date on…I gave MYSELF a chance.  I gave myself a chance to prove false whatever self-defeating thoughts I’d be carrying around in my head and in my heart that I couldn’t be/didn’t want to be “the relationship type”.  

And it truly was a process.
It’s a process to unlearn all the self-sabotaging thoughts/feelings/behaviors.  You can’t silence that inner voice as quickly as you’d like to.  We’d be out to dinner and he’d compliment me, only for me to roll my eyes or make a stupid face and say, “Yeah, ok.”  I’d say that happened for the first 3-4 months, easily.  And every time he’d say, “I’m just going to keep saying it until you start to believe it.”  Seriously, what is wrong with this guy?  He’d do thoughtful gestures like put gas in my car or surprise me with flowers or buy/ship me a Tempur Pedic pillow when I was out of town, and at least half the time I’d say, “Why’d you do that?  You don’t have to do that.”  Like, he was trying too hard or something.  Or even worse, he just doesn’t reeeeallllly know me yet.  Because once he does, this shit will stop.  We’ll both be swiping again soon enough.  Luckily, none of that was true.

Aside from the nice dinners or the thoughtful gifts or the sweet compliments, I was in awe of his patience more than anything.  And I still am.  I know I’m not easy.  I’m still learning.

Jon set the stage for me to look at myself in a way I never had before.  Kind of like “Pretty Woman” only minus the getting paid for sex part.  He gave me an opportunity to be a woman truly worth pursuing…the way my mom, my dad, my grandma always hoped a man would win me over.  And let’s be honest here, they’d all just about given up hope, ha.  I don’t blame them though.  They knew what I’d put myself through in the past.  He showed me that it’s okay to want these things.  It’s okay to think of myself as worthy and deserving of a mountain-moving love.

All the things I used to deem cheesy or unrealistic about being in a relationship were deemed so because I’d never felt it before.  I thought I didn’t want it because I didn’t know it.  So I never hoped for it, I never held out for it, I never asked for it.  I talked myself out of it long before any guy would end up disappointing me.

And Jon just gave his all.  Without question.  And continues to do so.

Not only did he expose me to new way to love…but he exposed me to his larger-than-life (borderline creepy) obsession with his bulldog, Stella, his ridiculous ‘if Danny Tanner were trying to seduce you’ dance moves, his grumpy old man opinions on everything from music to politics, he closet full of nothing more than plaid shirts and blue hoodies, his sappy and sensitive feelings when he’s had more than 3 IPAs, his super intense foot rubs,  his awkward story/joke delivery, and a million other things that I whole-heartedly love.

Who would have thought that after a decade of dating in Music City, I’d wind up with a car dealer in Michigan… Not I, that’s for sure.  But somehow, somewhere our stories blended perfectly.  And shit, we just stood side by side for last 365 days creating a new one.

I’ll drink to that.