Tag Archives: scared

Why Leaving Scares the Face Off of Me

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This blog.

When I look at the sidebar full of the years I’ve been writing on my own domain, writing about my life, my thoughts, and my feelings, I feel a little sad knowing I’m giving that up. My new blog won’t have that long sidebar going from July 2008 to October 2011 and beyond. It’s only been three years since I started blogging on perpetualsmile.net, and a little over a year since I started blogging on elizawhat.com, but it’s familiar. Going into the unfamiliar is scary, no matter what the situation. Essentially I am letting go of the ability to publicly express every thought and emotion, and replacing it with expressing only in the form of creative writing. I’m a good writer, because I can express myself using words. It’s always been my best form of communication. However, I’d much rather write and publicly share my stories. I know that to do so, I need to cut down on my distractions. I need to let go of my digital security blanket and open myself up to disciplined, daily creative writing.

I also know that in my new career of choice, no parent is going to want to find posts about depression and hemorrhoids when they Google my name before their child starts preschool.

What I know and what I feel are two different things, though.

I’m excited about this new adventure. I really am. And I know it’s okay to be scared, but that doesn’t make it any easier to let go.

Like I said, I’m a digital hoarder.

Still, I’ve made progress. I deleted — really deleted — my Facebook, deleted my Tumblr, deleted my Formspring, and deleted a couple of my extra Twitter accounts.

I’ve set up my new site (which I’ll be showing you soon). I’ve edited the first story I ever published. It was first published in a teeny, tiny publication called Fresh Ink at my community college, and I’m sure no more than one hundred people read it (probably even less than that, unfortunately). I’d like to share it with more people, because I’m proud of it. That story won a contest for me, a $100 gift card to Barnes and Noble, and a priceless compliment from a published writer. I read it yesterday before editing it and still felt proud of it (even though it needed a little more work). The ending still brought tears to my eyes. My own character broke my heart. (This is probably because I am overly sensitive.)

After my final round of edits, I created a cover for it. While I’m done with web design, I still love making graphics. Creating a digital book cover was a learning experience that I really enjoyed, even though it was literally a pain in the neck. (Thank goodness for Tylenol. I’ve been waking up every day with an achy neck.) Today I woke up without a sore neck, but still feel proud of what I accomplished yesterday. I know now that I can do it.

See, when ebooks first started becoming popular, I thought they were just a fad. I also thought they were a way for every man, woman, cat, and dog to put their unedited work out there. I cannot tell you how many technical ebooks I’ve read that, although helpful, were clearly thrown together the night before the writer posted them. I stayed away from most fiction ebooks, too, because I was a little afraid of what I might find.

But epublishing continued to become more popular, and slowly but surely, most people started to see that they needed to be a little more polished about it. De, a writer I met through Twitter, began to delve into epublishing about a year ago. I read as many of her posts on indie publishing as I could, and thought, That’s really cool. I watched her epublish her short stories and then publish a Choose Your Own Adventure type of book through a traditional publisher, and thought, Wow, I wish I could do that. Slowly, I began to see that epublishing could be a way to get your name out there, rather than waiting for someone to accept your story. Paired with traditional submissions, epublishing is just another way of getting your stories read and making people familiar with your name. In the last few weeks, I’ve been reading her posts and thinking, I wonder if I could do that. Now I want to try.

They say that everything happens for a reason. Things didn’t go well for me as a freelance or commercial web designer and social marketing consultant, but I learned a lot about online marketing. I learned enough to be able to market myself, which I’m going to need; indie epublishers don’t have big companies behind them to design their websites, design their book covers, set up book tours, and set up book reviews. It’s every woman or man for themselves, which is both frightening and exhilarating to me.

I think the reason I’m having such a hard time with walking away from this blog is because that means I have to face this scary and exciting thing without being able to run back. It’s been easy for me to write stories and novels and keep them to myself while putting my thoughts out there. I don’t know why I feel so vulnerable about my work but not about my feelings, but here we are.

I’m scared, but that’s okay. I’m only scared because this matters to me. My dream has always been to be a published writer, and this epublishing journey is the first step toward fulfilling that dream.

Every little thing is gonna be all right

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This is my message to you: No matter what’s going on, no matter how bad it is, it’s going to be okay. Hang on to your support system, even if that support is a pen, or guitar, or whatever. In my little corner of the world, we’re getting poured on — hard. But I have a wonderful family and the best friend I could ask for, and I’m going to be okay.

I might not feel like it right now — in fact, I’m fucking terrified — but I have to believe that everything is going to be okay.

If things are rough in your corner of the world, let’s hang on to each other. We’ll be okay, as long as we have each other. Vent away in the comments, or email me. I’m listening.

PS: If you want the password for my post, The C word again, just shoot me an email at elizawhat@gmail.com. I don’t care who reads it; I just password-protected it because there are still people in my family who don’t know what’s going on, and I thought a blog would be a shitty way to find out. Like I said, though, it’s open for anyone. I’ll remove the password as soon as I know that the people who don’t know yet are in the loop. (Really it’s just one person I’m concerned about, since she lives out of state and I’m not sure if she’s talked to anyone yet. Please know, also, that I’m not purposely withholding this from anyone. In this case, I just feel like it shouldn’t come from me, if that makes sense. I did the same thing with my first post about Popi, though I didn’t have to password-protect it because I couldn’t even write about it for a while, and by the time I could, everyone who needed to know, knew.)

Hugs and love to you all.

The C word again

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I walked into the house, carrying a soda, a Gatorade, and a bag of new clothes, talking to Mike about school systems that suck and make parents of special needs children more stressed than they need to be. The bad news that I’d just heard weighed heavily on me, and all I could do was shake my head and rant about how ridiculous it was that a school does not understand special needs childrens’ problems.

We spent a few minutes saying hello to my mom and sister, and then my mom looked at me and motioned for me to sit down. In barely above a whisper, she said she had to tell me something. (She has a sinus infection too, which always means no voice for her.)

“Not more bad news,” I said, joking. Then I saw the look on her face, and I sat down.

“Noni found a lump on one of her lymph nodes, where she had the tumors removed from before,” Mom said. “She had a biopsy, and…”

I barely heard the rest, because I didn’t need to. “No,” I choked, and buried my face in my hands.

Not again, not again, not again.

My grandmother is a breast cancer survivor. Several years ago, when Popi was still healthy, was still working, she was diagnosed. She went into chemotherapy. It was hard, but she beat it. In fact, I barely remember the details of the day to day stuff, because I was so young, and they caught it so early. In my memory, it was over before it really began. I didn’t have time to be scared. I was too young to be scared.

Cancer has already taken away one of my grandparents. Even though there’s no reason to jump to conclusions here, I have already been fighting the fear that the people I love are slipping away. It’s been eight months since we lost Popi. In those eight months, the pain has not even slightly diminished. I have realized that it will never be any easier without him. Each event or holiday will always make me think, We’re doing this without Popi. (Hell, sometimes I even think, Oh cool, I’ll get to see Popi there. It’s like my brain is handicapped.)

Noni is going to have a scan to make sure the cancer isn’t anywhere else, so that they can get an idea of how far it has or hasn’t advanced. Then they will start treatment. All I can think of is that, in the beginning, things looked really optimistic for Popi. I’m trying not to think like that, but it’s nearly impossible not to. The fear of losing the remaining half of my NoniandPopi is crippling.

I hope my dad is okay. He’s never one to say much. He didn’t say much when we lost Popi, and he didn’t say much when we lost Brian (who was his best friend years ago). Then again, I haven’t said much (out loud) either.

I hope Biz Noni is okay, too. She’s eighty-seven. Noni is her daughter.

I can’t believe this is happening again.

A step forward?

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Today was an emotional roller coaster.

I’m still not sure how I feel.

I woke up a few times throughout the night and this morning, partially because of the medication I’m on for the thing on my face — it gives me the night sweats like crazy — and partially because of my good old bladder. When I finally gave up on sleeping, I looked at my phone and saw I’d missed a call somewhere during all of the tossing and turning and getting up to pee.

I listened to the voicemail. It was a nurse from my doctor’s office, asking me to call back.

Immediately, I was flooded with a nervous anticipation. I knew it was about my blood work results, and I knew they had found something. I could hardly stand waiting as they transferred me from person to person, and when I finally got to the nurse who had originally called me, I almost wanted to tell her to hurry up, this was it, gimme it already! Instead, I clicked my pen on and off.

The blood work that Pam and Deanna ordered.

The blood work that Pam and Deanna ordered.

“We’re still waiting for your ANA results,” she said, seeming to be shuffling through the paperwork. Impatiently, I clicked my pen on and off, on and off. “Dr. Mongelluzzo looked at your results… Your Double Stranded DNA is really high,” she said. “He’s thinking it could be Lupus, and wants you to see Dr. Cooper, a rheumatologist.”

She gave me the phone number for Dr. Cooper’s office, told me to call after lunch to schedule my appointment, and the whole time, my mind was reeling.

Really high DS DNA.

Lupus.

Dr. Mongelluzzo had read my results. You know, the doctor who owns the practice — the one I’d originally wanted to see because he’d diagnosed my aunt’s friend’s Mystery Autoimmune Disease, but couldn’t get in to see for two months, so I made an appointment with Pam instead. Dr. M read my results, when he’s never been involved with my care before. To me, this says that this high DS DNA thing is a big deal.

Dr. Cooper — another rheumatologist.

When I hung up, I leaned back in my chair, my head tilted back, closed my eyes, and tried to decide whether I felt like screaming, laughing, jumping up and down, or crying.

A few seconds later, Mike walked into the room talking about something, then stopped short and asked if I was okay. I still couldn’t decide how I felt, but as I told him what Yuri had said on the phone, the tears spilled over anyway.

The more I talked to him, the more I realized how much I dreaded seeing yet another doctor. Dr. Cooper will be my third rheumatologist. The good news is, the rheumatologist who told me to try a psychiatrist works for the same medical group and is in the same building, so if I do get a diagnosis out of this, I’m going to make sure I pay her a visit.

When I told my mom about the blood work results, she said she’d thought it might be Lupus when she’d seen the rash thing on my chin.

I’m still not completely sure how I feel. I guess I’m kind of anxious, kind of scared, kind of relieved, kind of curious… I’m definitely intrigued by the fact that I seem to get actual results in my blood work whenever I get it done during a flareup of some sort. My DS DNA was borderline the first time it was tested; it was enough to say, “Hey! I’m an autoimmune disease, but sorry, can’t tell you which one or how severe!” This time, it’s practically screaming, which also kind of says, “Guess what? Whatever is wrong with you is getting worse! Hahaha!”

I want a diagnosis… but do I want a diagnosis? What I really wanted was for the PA I saw on Friday to tell me that the thing on my face was just eczema. I wanted to believe that maybe all of these symptoms are just insignificant things, overamplified in my head to make it seem like it’s something, but really isn’t. I also wanted to be verified as a non-crazy person, with something actually wrong with me.

I am a fucking paradox.

I am also sorry that this is all over the place. It’s been a long day.

Also? I miss my Popi.

I hate New Haven

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I had my first class at the “big girl school” last night. I decided to leave early so I’d have plenty of time to get gas, get there, park, get my parking pass, buy the other book I needed, get some dinner, and then find my class. I felt a little nervous but mostly exhilarated at going somewhere new and meeting new people. A new semester always gets me going, but a new semester at a new school for a new degree? I was really pumped.

I made it to campus without any real problems, aside from The Deathtrap — aka Lisa Mazda — refusing to go faster than 40 mph. (I got passed an awful lot and people kept riding my ass. I wanted to slam on the brakes a few times, but I was afraid the car wouldn’t get going again.) When I got to the first parking lot, I stopped and asked the parking lot monitor or security guard or whatever where I could park so I could walk to the campus police building and get a parking pass. He spit out directions at me a couple of times, even though I had no idea where I was going and I thought I could just park in the lot right there.

I tried to follow this guy’s directions, but I’m not familiar with the area at all. It was the first time I’d driven up there alone and the third time I’d been on campus, period. I’ve driven to the city once before for a concert but that was relatively easy to find. Needless to say, I ended up at some random magnet school, surrounded by one-way streets and evil, unfriendly New Havenians. I pulled into the school’s parking lot and tried not to cry, then called Nikki. She told me to try and come back the way I came and to meet her in the parking lot. Naturally, all of the streets shifted and I ended up on a one-way street to hell.

I called her as I was driving and told her I was lost, again. With my eyes bugging out of my head, I looked around for some sort of landmark so she could come get me. Finally, I found a Shell station next to a Popeyes. She told me she and her dad were on their way, and then I was alone.

I knew that inside of that Shell station would be a guy standing at the counter looking bored, but behind him would be a wall full of cigarettes. All I wanted was one of those cigarettes, but I didn’t dare leave my car. I didn’t want the mean New Havenians to see me cry. So I called my mom and cried to her.

“I’m lost,” I wailed.

“You have to calm down,” she said.

Five minutes later, I turned to my right and a street sign magically appeared. “Oh, fuck. I’m on Whalley Ave*. All I have to do is take a right out of here. Fuck.”

*Whalley Ave is the street that leads to campus. Yeah, I know.

“See? You usually just have to calm down and then you can figure out where you are,” my mom said.

I thought about how much money I had on me. I could just buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and everything would be all better. Fuck this quitting smoking bullshit.

Nervously, my head swiveled around and around looking for Nikki. When you’re lost, ten minutes feels like a damn hour. Finally, when I thought I would either go insane or have to break down and buy a pack of smokes, I saw Nikki — my hero — walking to The Deathtrap. I let my mom go and opened the door so Nikki could hear me (the window doesn’t like going up once it’s down).

“I hate New Haven. It sucks. And yes, I’m aware that I sound like a two-year-old,” I said, tears spilling down my cheeks. I couldn’t even control myself at that point.

“Aww, it’s okay,” she said. I bashed New Haven a little more and then someone at the pump behind me beeped.

I thought about telling them to learn how to back out of a space, but Nikki told me to just pull up alongside her dad’s van. I closed my mouth and moved so the dumb New Havenian could get out. Nikki and I followed her dad back to the sprawling, disgustingly huge campus that is SCSU, and then I was on my own again. I parked and set out to find the campus police building, campus map discreetly in hand and my kickass Alice in Wonderland tote on my shoulder. It only took a few minutes, and then I went back to my car and put the sticker on it.

My next stop was the student center. I could do this. Nothing was going to get in my way.

Except suddenly the campus seemed a lot bigger than I remembered. And it was getting dark. The buildings seemed bigger and the map didn’t make any damn sense. It was freaking cold and my stubborn ass was too proud to ask for help. I wandered around, trying not to look like I was lost. I’m enjoying the campus scenery, I thought to myself. The cold stung my face and my legs. I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t brought along an extra coat and a thicker pair of gloves (and possibly a moving space heater). It got darker and darker and I started to think I was never going to find the building when I saw it.

From outside I could see the campus Dunkin Donuts. I practically ran inside and bought myself a coffee and breakfast sandwich. (The girls working were sort of rude but sort of nice. I guess New Havenians are just weird like that. She was super polite but ignored me and slowly wrote something down while I waited for her to finish taking my order.) I shoved the sandwich down my throat (it didn’t taste as good as it does here in Waterbury), and then set out for the bookstore.

Everywhere I went, people stared at me. I was seriously starting to wonder whether I had a sign on my head. Maybe my nose had fallen off from the cold. I browsed the bookstore — which is a Barnes and Noble disguised as SCSU Bookstore — and found my book. I paid and went back upstairs. This time I went to the student center cafeteria. I sat down, opened up a letter from one of my pen pals, and ignored everything around me. I wrote back to her and it still wasn’t time for my class. I began to think that coming this early had been a bad, bad idea.

I decided to go find my class. The room was listed as B303, and I had no idea what B meant. I went across the way and into the building my class is in — I didn’t get lost this time but it was still really cold! — and found my class relatively quickly. It still wasn’t time, so I sat on the floor in the hallway with a bunch of other students and endured more stares. (Maybe my sign read, NOOB HERE?)

Of course, I had to use the bathroom so I wandered back downstairs and tried to find a restroom. I must have walked by it three times before I asked someone where it was, and she told me it was around the corner. I also left my coffee in the stall and didn’t realize it until I was already halfway back to my classroom.

The class went well, though. I like my professor so far. She’s four months pregnant and told us she can’t guarantee that she won’t burp or fart or burst into tears. We’re going to be studying and writing about the five senses to work on our writing. It seems interesting and I liked my first homework assignment so we shall see.

Of course, once the class was over it was time to leave. I had to find my car — which was a little easier this time — and when I finally got back to it the first thing I did was call Mike. “You’re going to keep me awake,” I told him. (It was almost nine.)

I took a left out of the parking lot and then a left at the light; even though Nikki had told me to take a right, right didn’t look right. After about ten minutes I started to get the nagging feeling that I was lost. “I think I went the wrong way,” I said to the speakerphone Mike. Another five minutes passed. “Fuck, I’m lost. I gotta let you go. I’m gonna call my dad.”

Dad — my other hero — used his GPS and got me out of the crazy New Havenian network of one-way streets and back onto 69. By the time I crossed my city line, I probably would have kissed the ground if I didn’t want to have an A Christmas Story moment and have the cops pull my frozen lips off the pavement.

Anyway, I’m exhausted and achy and exhausted, so I’m going to bed. I’m not looking forward to driving up there tomorrow, and I’m not too sure about going to the “big girl school.” I’m pretty freaking determined, though.