Poison In Lethal Doses

A Broken, Pretty Mess

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When I came home Wednesday afternoon, after being at the doctor’s office for HOURS (You know your doctor is good when EVERYONE wants to see her.), I didn’t realize how awful I felt.

I remember coming inside, hanging up my coat, taking in the mail, feeding Cat and Kitten a little earlier than usual, changing my clothes, washing my face multiple times (Turns out, vegan mascara really likes my lashes and doesn’t want to come off. For the record, I have NO IDEA why I chose to wear a full face of makeup to a doctor’s appointment. I looked like I was going on a date, minus false lashes, which I can’t apply to save my life. It looked subtle and clean when I applied it that morning. It wasn’t really a “full face” by Kardashian standards, but when I got home it was the exact opposite of subtle and clean. I stared at the mirror and said “Holy shit! Is this how I left the house?!” It had that “bombshell” look to it and that’s not what I was going for, obviously. I was genuinely appalled with my own idiocy.), eating salad, and suddenly I felt overwhelmingly AWFUL. I was in bed at exactly 7:05 PM, only waking up to hydrate. I somehow had the audacity to sleep over eleven hours. No medication, no influence, just pure exhaustion mixed with physical pain.

I feel broken. I realized that when a different doctor called me to have a discussion about what my needs are moving forward (my first referral to someone else for specific reasons). I heard myself explaining the summarized version of what has occurred to make me feel the way I do and as I eventually heard myself speaking, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. It felt incredibly sad, depressing, and honestly, the list could go on forever. It slammed down on me like a tornado coming out of nowhere. I caught myself, mid-conversation, thinking “This is what your life has been like. Holy crap! You need a hug.” But a hug isn’t what I truly want or need. I want to come away from something someday and feel healed. I’m tired of being a broken, pretty mess. I’m sick of it, because it feels like I’m somehow reduced into victim mentality, and I don’t like that feeling. No one does. For the doctor’s assistant to meet me for the first time and say “We’re here for you and we care.” was overwhelmingly emotional for me. I have family and friends who NEVER say that to me. And by never, I mean NEVER.

Do you know what it’s like to never hear a kind word spoken to or about you? I do. For longer than I care to admit, I have been reduced to being one of three things “Pretty.”, Talented.”, or “Smart.” Occasionally someone will say I’m all three, but generally I only hear the one, and that could be from anyone interacting with me on any given day. It could be a perfect stranger thinking they’re paying me a compliment, and maybe they are, but it leaves me feeling reduced to three boxes, and nothing else.

The people closest to me (my friends) would probably say much nicer things and would not reduce me into a trinity of superficiality. A friend recently told me I was “super-smart and had so much depth that most people never even realize it’s there because they don’t look”. I remember hanging up the phone after that conversation and thinking “I’m glad someone gets me.” It’s a short list.

I was at the vet one day and a guy complimented me on my skin. I wasn’t expecting it. It was one of those “Wait, what?” moments. You had to be there. He went into great detail as he explained that my skin is so flawless, he could tell I never go in the sun, that I don’t drink or smoke, that I take really good care of it, and that I’ve never had anything done on a plastic surgery level. All of those observations are correct, but I look in the mirror and I do NOT see flawless anything, I jokingly replied, “It’s all smoke and mirrors.”, but his compliment was quite genuine, and the back and forth went on for about twenty minutes. It was one of the nicest compliments I’ve gotten, but it was also an observation verbalized. I told him I was going to take him everywhere with me from now on because he’d made my day, but that’s precisely how I felt; I hadn’t heard a kind word or a compliment in so long, I would have listened to any compliment, however genuine or not, because it wasn’t negative. I don’t live my life for compliments of any kind, I just try not to be a piece of crap. I sent my cousin a photo about a month ago and she said the same thing “Holy shit, your skin is flawless. Are you wearing makeup?” There are some very lovely, sweet, blind people in this world. I am CLUELESS as to what they see.

Have you ever been in so much physical, mental, or emotional pain (possibly all three) and simply not seen anything when you look in the mirror? You reach a point where you don’t look too closely, or you don’t look yourself in the eye because you’re hurting too much.

When I woke up Thursday morning, the first thing I thought was “You look like a broken, pretty mess.”, and it hurt to think that, even though it’s precisely how I feel inside. So now, I’ve boxed myself into a category that I don’t particularly like, but it is what it is.

Someone recently told me that I’m a great person because I embrace the imperfections that make me, me. I don’t see how that makes me a great person. Embracing your flaws and your ability to know when you’re fucked up doesn’t make you good or great, but it does make you human.

When people in your life who claim to love you constantly remind you that you’re a failure, it’s NOT acceptable to allow them to get away with it. When they blame you for things you had nothing to do with, or they turn their own internal issues onto you, you need to step back and say NO. It’s virtually impossible for you to single-handedly be responsible for other people’s issues. I don’t look at anyone and blame them for mine, because that’s inaccurate.

People get offended when I disengage, either by walking away so I don’t murder them or by remaining silent. Silence doesn’t mean I’m not listening or that I’m ignoring you, but it does mean I am not going to accept negativity. I’m not going to allow myself to be harmed by words that don’t hold a whole hell of a lot of truth, and I’m not going to allow myself to be hurt by anyone who is merely lashing out or placing blame because their first instinct is to place blame. If you have issues like that, hit a heavy bag at the gym for an hour, but don’t take your crap out on me. I’m enough of a mess, I don’t need your shit on top of it.

I spend a lot of time talking other people off of their emotional ledges. I can’t tell you the last time someone even made an effort to talk me down from one of mine. The most condescending thing you can say is “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie.”, and then proceed to talk about yourself and nothing else. I could be bleeding out of an eyeball and I’m certain someone would try to one-up me with somehow being in more pain or dealing with something far more excruciating. I catch myself at times feeling extremely annoyed by that, and yet, people don’t correct themselves. They go around believing the world revolves around them. I genuinely have no idea how they function in society.

I’ve felt invisible for a long time, but I’ve reached that point where I’m starting to believe that only certain types of people can see me. From here on in, if a person cannot truly see me, then I don’t want to be around them. Plain and simple.

So for today, and possibly this entire week, I’ll remain a broken, pretty mess. I’ll write and I’ll struggle, and no one will even glance in my general direction. My hand to G-d, no one will fucking notice because no one gives a shit.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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Cat And Kitten Send Mommy To The Doctor

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I know what you’re thinking. “This is the first time they’ve thought of it in all the years they’ve owned you?!” In all seriousness, I made the appointment myself, long before my Urgent Care fiasco of last Tuesday.

However, at 5:00 a.m., I really don’t need Large Paws (Kitten) walking all over me from head to toe to shove me out of bed. I’m not sure what that was about, other than to annoy me and get me into the kitchen to give them their breakfast. Five a.m. Really?! Since when is that acceptable?! I mean, it was still dark out (at the time). This is what happens when you raise food-aggressive cats, people.

When I woke up and started making actual sounds, having dragged myself to the cough medicine, I heard Cat plummet down from wherever she was with a little “Boom!” onto the hard wood. The second I do anything even remotely interesting, day or night, I am subjected to the “Boom!” and her elephant steps come flying down to see what I’m up to. I walked into the kitchen and said “Are you both in here?” before turning on the light. There is NOTHING normal about that kind of behavior, or discussions with cats who only want food and nothing else. I swear, I won’t see either of them until I get home from the doctor. Unless I’m feeding them, they now have zero use for me whatsoever. Can you feel the love?!

Later today is my first appointment with a new doctor in a little over five years. My last one went a little something like this “I don’t want anymore pain patients!”, which was practically yelled at me, disdain as long as a month on this doctor’s face. Yeah, and I don’t want a doctor with a stick up his ass, but “pain patients” are probably the reason you can pay your student loans from the subpar ‘medical school’ you went to and we’re probably the reason you can make your car payment each month, so shush.

If you’re a D.O. and not an M.D., you didn’t go through the same training methods or learn the exact same things. If I wanted someone to treat me holistically, I’d go to a naturopath, not a D.O. Call me a snob, but I want someone who has their shit together, regardless of the two letters after their name. I’m a person, not a number in a chart. I don’t want to be passed on to the Physician’s Assistant (especially not this doctor’s assistant who could have killed me if I wasn’t a smart patient that spoke up last week.), Nurse Practitioner, etc. I just want to keep it real. If I have to wait weeks on end for an appointment with the actual doctor, then I want to SEE the actual doctor. It’s not a lot to ask.

I go in today with zero expectations. Honestly, they couldn’t be any lower than they are. I did write up a detailed medical history for her since it’ll be a while before she gets mediocre-at best records from my previous physicians. The lab is next door to the doctor’s office, so I suspect my first order of business is to be thoroughly vamped. Good luck. The only way you’ll get so much as a drop of blood is by going into my hands or wrist. You might have better luck with a paper-cut. At the mere mention of blood work, my veins disappear. I typed that and only two are visible in my left wrist and forearm. The others have gone bye-bye. They’ve been through a LOT over the years. 😦 My appointment is a little before 3:00 PM, so there’s no way in hell I’m fasting on the potential she wants to run tests I don’t actually need. I don’t have diabetes (Thank God and Goddess.), but she can run a hemoglobin A1C ’til the cows come home. The only thing I think will be high is my cholesterol, because it runs in the family, but it’s always been good previously, so I’m not going to agonize over it. My white count will be elevated, as it always is, which is indicative of an infection OR an autoimmune disease. This time, it would be hard to tell which because I’m fighting off two infections. I’m usually just fighting my body. 😦

In the history report I started with concussions and worked my way up to the reason I’m going there. Not once in this report do I use the words “Chronic Pain” or “Fibromyalgia”. I decided I want to be diagnosed properly, and therefore, she can refer me to a Neurologist and a Rheumatologist, and whomever else for that matter, but I’m not using those words until a new doctor does. I do not want or need another doctor treating me like crap because the words “Chronic Pain” and “Fibromyalgia” make them uncomfortable. Or worse, label me as a “drug seeker” when I am not. I’ve never once asked or demanded pain medication from a doctor.

I am still recovering from the infections I have and the case of Bronchitis. I missed a couple of doses of antibiotics, so I still feel pretty awful. My sinuses are terribly painful. I keep hoping it’ll rain and that some of the pressure will ease, but thus far, not a single rain drop. Figures.

I won’t lie; I’m concerned that so much is wrong with me and that no doctor on this planet will ever get to the bottom of it. I’m sick to my stomach, wondering what I’ve inherited genetically considering my brother has had a quadruple bypass, which the doctors said was not anything he did or didn’t do health-wise, but a genetic issue. Both of my parents had heart issues young; my mother died as a result of her heart giving out. My Grandfather died at 40 from a massive heart attack. More than half of my family has had or had cancer. So while I’ve got good genes in the looks and youth department, internally, I have just cause to be concerned.

I am the only person in my family with any form of Chronic Pain. My brother told me that his migraines got better post-bypass surgery. Ever since then, I’ve wondered if my heart is a ticking time bomb waiting to take me out, despite being told twice that it’s healthy and working as it should. And when it comes to cancer, I have a lot of cause to worry as a non-smoker who was subjected to secondhand smoke for the majority of her life, which is precisely how my Grandmother got cancer, twice. She also hid from the sun my entire life and still managed to get skin cancer. I’ve spent the majority of my life covered in sunscreen, and now and then, I still get a little burn here and there if I haven’t reapplied and have been out in direct sunlight longer than two hours. We talk about global warming, but we should also address the holes in the ozone layer when we discuss the need for sunscreen. People are developing allergies to the sun, and are wearing SPF 100 just to be outside for 10-30 minutes a day, if that. Hell, they have to wear it indoors too, because UV rays can and do come through the glass.

Less than an hour has passed since I fed Large Paws and Bunny Paws. I haven’t seen them or heard from them since. They’re doing a lot to boost my self-esteem, let me tell ya!

And so, today’s journey begins with pulling my shit together, preparing myself for this appointment, and going. Like I said, my expectations are low, but I’ve managed to work myself up into some very respectable panic attacks between Sunday and this morning. 😦

Wish me good luck. I keep hoping I’ll just be hit by a MACK truck and be able to call it a day. What can I say? I’m tired of this crap.

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I zoomed in on this photo, so you could see that Cat is sitting inside a bag of bags. She’s OBSESSED with bags from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. She’s also annoyed that the camera comes out every time she does something even remotely cute. Doesn’t she look bunny soft? She is.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

 

 

Nothing But The Blues

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People say you can tell a lot about someone based on their favorite color(s). I disagree.

Many moons ago, my favorite colors were red and black. I openly admit this was heavily influenced by someone else. Now the only time you see me wear red is on race day OR if I’m crazy pissed off. Last year I wore it on my nails quite a bit, which hadn’t happened in a LONG time, but you get the gist. Red and I are no longer pals, though I do find myself drawn to expanding my polish horizons. I openly admit that a fresh manicure makes me feel human.

I have loved blue nail polish ever since I was about eleven. Wet ‘N Wild had (and probably still does) this awesome metallic blue nail polish that I wore as often as possible. Hell, I probably have a few bottles of it in my nail polish stash because I rarely throw polish away unless it’s gross and needs to be tossed.

When I walked away from red & black, I fully embraced blue & silver. Damn near everything I own is one of those two colors. Sometimes it’s intentional, other times it’s not, but blue keeps me calm and steady. I do not find it depressing. I don’t find the color grey/silver depressing either. In fact, I think it looks really good on me. A person once referred to them as “power colors”. I disagree with that assessment. I just like what I like.

Does color define the person? No. Your favorite color could be canary yellow and I wouldn’t sit here in judgment of that or tell you my opinion. It’s just a color.

How you treat people (and animals) is far more important than your favorite color. How you speak to people is more important than smaller things. I think we can all safely agree on that.

I’ve said this many times and will probably say it many more; words have power. As a writer, I’m a very careful speaker. I try not to say every single thing I think and feel, or my body count in real life would be close to that of many fictional characters I have an affinity for. I am a tried and true armchair coach. I respond to idiots on the radio when they stupid shit, but sometimes when people say nasty, insane, untrue things to me, I let it slide. In moments like this, my silence is what helps keep the other person alive.

If you were to personally insult me, the first reaction I would have is “Who the fuck does this person think they’re talking to?” Within thirty seconds or so, I’ve probably thought of fifteen ways to kill you and get rid of your body. Those are thoughts with zero remorse.

I’m never sure what motivates a person to be hurtful, mean, cruel, vindictive, or just plain evil, and hateful. I try to consider the source before I respond to it. Despite having an abusive father, I’ve been told many times, by so many people, that I have his best qualities, not his worst. I inherited dual tempers from my parents. My father was quick to spark, but he’d fizzle out pretty quickly in many cases. My mother was a slower boil, but once you pushed her, you were in deep trouble. I’m both. I will spark and ignite, and I will also simmer until I explode. When I was last in therapy, I worked on my anger issues and came away feeling like a neutered puppy. I’ve since learned to keep it in check 70% of the time, but that other 30%? Embrace the fact that it’s there, or get out of my way.

I do not believe in saying I love someone if it’s not true. I can’t say “I love you.” and then be hateful and cruel to them. I yell at my brother, but if he needed a kidney, he’d get it.

I almost never fight with my friends. Truly. One of my best friends pisses me off about once a year. Like clockwork, she always chooses the absolute wrong time to upset me so badly, I ice her out for a while until she learns that I’m actually so pissed off, I contemplate ending the friendship so as to avoid it happening again. Usually, it’s her acting out without just cause. I can write something here and she will take it SO personally that she’ll actually try quoting things back to me in her own defense. We finally agreed that she needed to stop reading the things I write, period. Anyone who reads my work and thinks “Oh, she’s talking about me.” has got one hell of an ego. If I’m talking about you, I am happy to call you out by name and give personal details. Sometimes, I am just writing, and we’ll leave it at that.

Everyone has a different style to their writing. I once knew someone whose blog read like a personal journal. It was moving and I was heartbroken for her when she took it down. Another person I know very well would write the most beautiful poetry. Even though she hasn’t written in a few years, I still think she’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever known. Each person has their niche, and some people are still searching for theirs.

Funny to some people is not even remotely amusing to me. It’s like trying to get a stone to laugh; I won’t give someone the satisfaction if they aren’t genuinely amusing or laugh out loud hilarious. Granted, I have a warped sense of humor. Only my close friends find me funny, and I’m okay with that. I don’t try to be funny, I just say what I think and feel. And yes, I’ve been known to laugh at my own jokes when they’re really funny. I think there’s an amazing art to having someone call you hysterical crying, but by the time you hang up with them, they’re laughing and smiling, and they feel better. “Hearing your voice is so calming and soothing.” or “You always make me feel better.”, these are things commonly said to me. I take that as a great compliment because I’m allowed to be myself with a very small group of people and I cherish the fact that they accept me exactly as I am.

Yesterday, I caught myself wishing I could go back ten years and start over. I wanted to reverse all the pain, all the misery, all the loss and unhappiness, and start from scratch a bit. “What would I be giving up?”, I thought. And then I realized I’d be giving up the majority of my friendships. If all the bad things hadn’t happened, even things too painful for me to discuss, I would not have great people behind me.

How many friends did I have ten years ago? Five or six. How much was I writing back then? Not a ton. I was dealing with my father’s cancer battle and my Mom wasn’t doing all that great, either. I was working on a degree and kept taking time off because I couldn’t concentrate. And at the time, maybe earlier now that I think about it, I developed “drop syndrome” from the stress. I made an emergency appointment with my neurologist and explained what was happening to him. One minute I’d be talking to you with a banana in my hand and the next minute I’d be flat on my face on the floor. He told me it would get better. Has it? No. It’s reached a different level where I blackout for 2-6 hours and cannot account for a single second of that time. I am only lucky I have not been found wandering the streets, or worse, during these episodes because coming out of them is fucking scary.

So yes, I’d like to go back ten years. With everything I hold dear today, with all the knowledge, and with the firm belief that no matter how blue things are, tomorrow could be lighter.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

 

Editing & Earl Grey

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Good writers know when their story is finished. We don’t question it; we just instinctively know “This is where to stop.” and often times, we’re satisfied with that. What do you do when your story is still being told and you’re magnetically pulled to keep on writing?

I’m ass deep in alligators on this rewrite. Like an onion, this story has so many deeper layers I have yet to unravel. Today, interesting things were developed. I then saved the file and decided to do a read-through. I cut, I added, I cut some more, and then additional development began. All I could do was type, because in that moment I thought “These poor characters. They’re so desperately trying to know who they are, what their role is in each other’s lives, how to stay focused, how to move forward.”, etc. It was kind of heartbreaking for me.

Initially when these characters popped into my head, I thought this would be an easy write and a very easy read; the kind that is easy to relate to. But then I realized I’d fallen into a trap of creating a character that made a choice out of avoidance. She spent the majority of the story avoiding huge issues when she didn’t need to do any of it.

At the time, a key line from her was “I stopped thinking up ways to tell him.” She was so committed to moving forward and being a strong woman, that she made a grave mistake, and would later realize how painful that mistake would be for her. She spent a lot of time arguing with a doctor, as well, one who was trying to help her, but was bound by patient confidentiality.

I allowed that to play out until the novel reached a crucial point. I loved what I’d written, but I also thought “What if I went in a different direction?” And so, I started from scratch with just a few key chapters to work with.

This current rewrite is the new direction. I don’t know if it’s better or worse, I just know that the storytelling is fair. It’s over 520 pages, and it continues to grow. I know I need to focus less on the page and word count, and focus more on the actual story, but as a writer of substance, I am trying to keep all of it in mind because I’ve already edited out about 200 pages, if not more. And here’s a simple fact; this story will eventually be whittled down to the bare minimum. That’s a given in the story-telling process. You want a clean manuscript, but you also want all of the key points in the final product.

So I sit here with a steaming cup of Earl Grey, with real sugar and cream, and I ponder my direction.

In many ways, this story is parallel to something I am currently going through. It’s a “Do I or don’t I?” story. Do I take this chance? Do I take this risk? What if? There are only three things lacking for me in my decision-making process, because after all, fiction is fiction and it gives you the opportunity to play. Believe me, I wish I had the problems these characters have. I have some of them, just not all of them.

I’ve decided to prepare this manuscript for a few contests coming up. I want to challenge myself and allow it to be read by people who can’t offend me. I’m my own worst critic; so the worst a stranger can say is nowhere near as harsh as I am with myself. It’s simple; you’ll either like it or you won’t. Hell, someone might even love it.

I didn’t really consider the ramifications of taking on a genre that is so well-established and timeless. I just wanted to write something out of my system so I’d stop having dreams about it every night. The dreams have stopped, but the story has not.

I will know when the story is done. I will. For now, I just have to keep writing. I’m either really angry or trying to get shit done when I break out the red mug. The grey mug is so much more soothing, but tonight, it’s red.

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend!

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

You Never Plan For This

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There’s nothing more unpretty than me when I’m sick. I don’t just mean looks-wise, I mean in the miserable troll sense. I’m a terrifying, sleeping dragon on a good day, but when I’m sick I’m the three-headed dog from Harry Potter & The Sorcerer’s Stone.

I take a lot of precautions to avoid getting sick. I figure suffering from Fibromyalgia and Migraines is more than enough for one person, and being sick on top of one, or both, is highly unnecessary. And guess what? I’m RIGHT.

I am the person at every grocery store who wipes down the shopping cart thoroughly with a sanitizing wipe. I get the strangest looks from people every time I do it (especially in Walmart), but I don’t care. I don’t want other people’s germs. If you just put your child in that cart with no pants on (Really?! When did this become acceptable?!) and a diaper, you damn well KNOW I am not just going to put my hands on that cart. Dress your children and keep them in check. They’re germ-carriers, but as their parents, so are you.

If you work with the public and don’t use hand sanitizer throughout the day, you need to. Not because I’m OCD (I am, to some extent), but because of germs. I’ve NEVER been tested for influenza before, but I was assured that a very nasty strain is going around before my test was run. Good to know. Damn near every person before and after me was coming in with the exact same symptoms. I’m sure someone had a case of the flu in the twenty or so people that came through.

Yesterday was bad. I spent the entire day with my ears crackling and popping like a bowl of cereal. I did NOT want to hear noise, and I still don’t. It physically hurts my ears. I’d woken up in the middle of the night unable to sleep and after going back to bed, I was woken by a team of idiots outside my bedroom window repairing the next door neighbor’s garage door. Two hours of sleep ruined by music and people yelling at each other in Spanish. They were here for about two and a half hours. I wisely remained inside and did not attack anyone, even though I wanted to.

My temperature decided to do a 360 on me, too, last night. My body always tells me when it’s not okay, so I decided to check and the look on my face when I read the thermometer was NOT a happy one. I have taken four ibuprofen to lower this fever. I think it’s getting better, but I have no clue what today brings because I don’t plan for this shit to happen to me.

The #1 side effect of one of the medications (which actually works) is nose bleeds. The pharmacist spoke with me about it and said he didn’t think it would happen, but that it’s the most common side effect for this drug. Do not for a single second think I did not get a fun nose bleed this morning, because I did. I’d been using a different medication these past few weeks for the exact same thing and it NEVER caused a nose bleed, but this one? Of course! Welcome to my life.

All day yesterday I just wanted a nap. I didn’t get it. I went to bed a little before 8:30 and was wide awake at 11:00. I’ve been up ever since. These non-drowsy medications are wiring the crap out of me.

I am unpleasant, whiny, red-nosed, and red-faced. To add insult to injury, I got some very disturbing, upsetting news regarding my brother around 2:30 this morning. I can’t sit here and say it doesn’t effect me, because it does. I cannot pretend. I wish I could discuss how bad the situation is, but so as to avoid possibly breaking his trust in me, I will simply say I hope and pray some donations come through because things are BAD and I am afraid for him. On top of looking like death (he’s a shell of the person he once was), he was robbed AGAIN, which is the third time in less than a year, and will not be able to contact me until I’m able to replace his cell phone. I’m very worried, very freaked out, and VERY upset. I thought he was finally in a safe space and that I could catch my breath, but I come to find out he is not. I’m not a special snowflake, so why all of this horrible shit is happening to my brother is beyond me. Every single day, I am afraid the phone will ring and it will be a police officer asking me to come down to Pennsylvania and identify his body. If ever I receive a phone call like that, I know precisely where the blame rests. No matter how down on their luck a person is, turning your back on them is despicable. I don’t always agree with my brother, but I do whatever I can for him. I’m not perfect, but I make an effort. I have not spoken to him since January because his other cell phone was stolen. I literally cannot keep up with the insanity. This is someone I normally speak to every single day. Over three months is a LONG fucking time to not speak to him and I’ve not seen him since December of 2015. We’re very close, so this is disturbing to me on more levels than I care to count.

I wish I had better things to say today, but I don’t. All I have is the truth and the pain of that truth. Now, more than ever, I feel like the future is a little pointless. The things other people are worried about seem so childish and trivial to me in the grand scheme of things. I don’t think anyone realizes how privileged they are until their entire life is stripped away, leaving them with nothing.

I’m not the kind of woman that sits around and hopes. I pray, I despair, and I pray again. I do hope for the best, but since I continually see the worst in others, I am shocked when good people step up.

I pray for better days ahead. For my brother, and for humanity on a whole.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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Letting It Pass

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People make an awful lot of assumptions when you keep the majority of your thoughts private. They desperately try to read your body language and facial expressions, but they don’t know what any of them mean, so again, they make assumptions. I’m not the kind of person anyone should be making assumptions about.

I have a very close-knit group of friends who I’d do anything for. I have a handful of family members I value, and sometimes even that is iffy. Beyond that, I keep things extremely quiet. It doesn’t mean I don’t think, feel, or love. It just means I keep things contained. My brother calls it “extreme cop face”. He will often joke that I’m working for the CIA because I keep my private life SO private, it’s basically a mystery. Growing up the way I did, I felt like I had to. It was a way of protecting myself. We all have coping mechanisms that, on occasion, follow us through life. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong or that you need to change, it’s simply how you keep yourself in check.

This is the second year in a row where I was invited to Passover functions. My entire life before this, I either spent the holiday with my parents and Grandmother, or I didn’t celebrate at all. I was sick in bed last year, so I did not attend anything. I’m not that far from it now, I’m in horrific agony, but this year I just flat-out said no. No to someone else’s friends, where I can’t go through the interrogation I know is coming, and no to my cousins, because I’m not schlepping thirty minutes away two nights in a row for something that isn’t all that important to me. Sad, but true. I love my cousin and I’d kill for him, but not enough to sit through something that is basically traumatic for me.

Because I said no, assumptions were made and accusations flew. I was accused of being “socially phobic”. Not true. I am not AFRAID of people. If I were, I’d never leave the fucking house or speak to anyone! I dislike people. I dislike inane conversation, things that do not matter to me, conversation I have no business taking part in, bullshit, falseness, disloyalty, petty, catty crap, and knowing in advance that I don’t belong. What smart person puts themselves into situations where they already know they do NOT belong?! I don’t. I have better things to do with my time. It’s valuable.

I am not one of those people that believes that good exists in everyone. I’m smarter than that. That’s like saying prisons aren’t full of murderers and rapists. Yeah, I bet they all have hearts of gold, too (Yes, I do enjoy my sarcasm.). If people want to meet me, they should be able to do so on comfortable terms. A holiday is not one of them. That’s my feeling on the subject. Besides, I lack the ability to pretend I’m enjoying myself when I am in pain, annoyed, or intolerant of those around me. I like so few people, it’s not even funny, but I am by no means phobic of others. I’ve made more new friends in the past year than I’ve made in the last ten. If I was indeed “socially phobic”, those friendships would never have made it as far as they have. Those I am now super-close with never would have gotten as close as they have, either. So let’s call it what it actually is: Socially selective. I’ve always been this way. I’ve always picked and chosen my friends because I am the type of person that doesn’t have to accept the crumbs of life. My mother always told me “Choose your friends wisely.” She was right. I’ve been burned by friends I did not choose, so there you go. I am socially selective. It’s not a fucking crime against humanity.

I don’t feel the need to attend every single thing I am invited to. Let’s face it; there aren’t a lot of things to begin with and sometimes, when I’m not sick, I just want peace and quiet to focus on the work I’m doing.

I have a religious function coming up in late June/early July that I will indeed attend, but I’ve known about it for months and that’s different than last-minute mentions. I have time between now and then to put an outfit together, and even if I feel like shit, drag myself because I promised my cousin I’d be there. It’s a special moment for him, and since I’m the only family he has here, I’ll go because he asked and because he told me how he felt about me living so close.

I have a friend coming to visit this summer, as well. We’re trying to plan a day or two where we can just hang out and have fun. I’d NEVER agree to being out in the sun during the summer for just anyone, so she was thrilled when I suggested we make solid plans. For me to know in advance that I have something to look forward to is really nice. But these are things with my peers. If I’m going out, I want to have fun. I don’t want to be pissed off, miserable, depressed, unhappy, in pain, or have my plans made for me by someone else. Life is short and I want to enjoy the time I spend and who I spend it with. I want to be able to be myself, knowing I’m not being judged. I want to be around people who appreciate and respect that I am imperfect, goofy, inappropriately hilarious, sarcastic, witty, smart, and that I don’t take crap from anyone. There’s a softer side to me, too, but very few people get to see her and that’s exactly how it should be. I believe in reserving pieces of myself for myself.

I can’t recall the last time someone asked me what I wanted to do instead of telling me what was being done and asking if I wanted to tag along. There’s a difference between the two, and for me, it’s an immense difference. If someone wants to spend time with me, it can’t be all about them. That’s not right, nor is it fair. If “going out” is going to leave me stressed, angry, in pain, or worse, all three, then I’m not going to engage. I’d gain more by staying home and learning something as opposed to making myself sick.

This year, I just need the holiday to pass. I am trying to focus on my health. I have a doctor’s appointment scheduled and I want to go into it with a list of issues to cover. I want to hit as many points as humanly possible because no one should have to suffer like this. I always tell other people to make lists before they go to the doctor, and I find myself doing that now, too. I know it will result in x-rays, lab work, MRIs, and a referral to a neurologist, but that’s better than nothing. I’d rather look forward to all of that as opposed to continuing to suffer. I can handle starting fresh, but I can’t handle the pain for another second. I shouldn’t be struggling to walk or feeling like someone has put rods in my spine. I am tired of feeling like I’ve been beaten or run over by a truck. I’m tired of looking at my back and seeing nothing but bruises. Hell, I’m tired of finding bruises on my body, period.

Not celebrating a crucial holiday has nothing to do with my faith. G-d knows who and what I am. I am imperfect. I pray. I hold doors for people. I let people ahead of me on line in stores. I give to charity and help people whenever I am able. I call people and check in to make sure they’re okay. I write letters, e-mails, and send cards. I try never to forget a birthday or an important moment in someone’s life. Celebrating a holiday doesn’t make you a good or bad person. Being emotionally present for people is more important to me. Not being cruel and hurtful is more important to me. Being able to look at myself in the mirror and know I do more right than wrong is more important to me.

I’ve said it before, but life is indeed short. I don’t get to spend a lot of it happy. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I was happy or what it felt like, but at the beginning and end of each day, at least I’m real. These things don’t have to be important to everyone, but they do have to be important to me.

Wishing everyone a Happy Passover and/or a lovely week ahead.

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copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Doubting Myself

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All writers have moments when they feel unprepared. Me? On occasion I will say “I wish I were talented.” or “I can’t write this.” In other words, even the best of us have bad days. Or weeks. We all have a little doubt, or we’d be completely full of crap.

I hold it in really well, but I have a lot of doubt when it comes to material I haven’t been writing since day one.

When I first began writing, I did toy around with some fiction. I spent about four or five years writing it for FUN, and when I moved from one state to another, I trashed every single printed page and everything I’d saved it to. Why? Because I took a look at it, saw my growth, and realized that even though it had been fun, it was infantile compared to what I truly wanted to be writing. I didn’t ever want to come across it again because it was nonsense. I decided then that it was okay to read fiction, but it wasn’t in my best interests to be writing it. I did not personally excel in made-up worlds.

Fast-forward and I’ve since created a Dark Urban Fantasy series, which I will be refocusing on at some point in the future (Meaning not today, but soon.), and I am currently working on something I’m not completely comfortable with. However, it is allowing me to explore my emotional depth, and maybe that’s the entire point. Maybe that’s why this story haunted me for months. Maybe it is a reminder that I’m human, and that not every part of me has to be put into storage under lock and key. There are certain lines in the book that are straight out of my own life.

More than once I’ve caught myself saying “Do I have to publish it under my name?” Yes. Yes, I do. I cannot worry about the thoughts of others. I can only tell the story, and move forward. There will be good reviews, bad reviews, and middle of the road reviews. I’m used to that, because not everyone likes my writing style and plenty of people like me even less. Regardless of what people think or say, I still have to tell the story.

For the last few days, I took it upon myself to do some research. I read a lot to see if anyone had anything similar out there, as a precautionary measure. Even if I didn’t know about it, someone could still accuse me of a form of plagiarism. My determination after a few books is that after a certain point, a lot of stories start to blend into one another. Everyone tells their stories a little differently. Some are good, some aren’t, but ultimately I need to stop worrying. Comparing and contrasting isn’t my job. Writing IS.

And so I sit here today, as per usual, with a lower back and left shoulder that are in desperate need of medical treatment. Just walking yesterday killed me, and by walking I mean 3 ½ miles worth. I have no idea how I’m functioning today.

No, I’m not being stubborn. The insurance I had doesn’t cover the doctor I want to see, who is local, so I switched temporarily, just to be able to get in with ONE doctor until I can find someone to see me on the other plan. They told me it wouldn’t go into effect until May 1st, but that I am still covered regardless and not to worry. However, when I went to pick up my medication yesterday, I was already covered by the new plan. I stared at the pharmacy tech and she said “They’re SUCH liars. You can speak to five different people in a day and they’ll all tell you a different story. This happens every day, all day long with these people.” It isn’t the first time I’ve thought that in regard to this company, she just got it out of her mouth before I said something equally as honest.

Technically, I should be at Urgent Care instead of sitting here writing. Alas, this might be another one of those weeks where I don’t get to prioritize my health because of outside circumstances beyond my control. The doctor can’t see me until the end of the month/early May, so Urgent Care seemed like a step in the right direction. Unfortunately, they have bankers hours and I don’t want to show up only to be told they don’t take my insurance. I’d probably lose it on someone. As it is, I have until June 29th to change my insurance AGAIN and then start over with a whole new set of doctors that will be G-d only knows where! What’s the point of having health insurance when no one is accepting new patients OR they’re so far away, it’s utterly pointless?! It’s extremely frustrating to me.

And so, I write. I write through the pain, I try to write it out of my system emotionally, and I desperately try not to sit here in tears when the pain is too much (which is 99% of the time).

There are days I’d like my original life back. One where very few doubts entered my mind, and where being able to walk, sit, stand, think, etc., were not issues because my life wasn’t chock full of agonizing pain.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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“Who Are You?”

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A few days ago a family member offered to read my new manuscript. It was a very “Alice In Wonderland” moment. I damn near said “Whooo Are YOU?” and everything, just like the caterpillar asks Alice. I turned my face to the right, in utter mortification.

“I can be objective.” was their argument. Um, I’d rather you not be.

Then they asked “Don’t you have anyone you trust who you would want to read it and give you their honest opinion?” I said no. I wasn’t kidding. “How about your best friend?” My best friend Marion is not a big reader, mostly because she reads at work all week long and can’t stand it when she’s on her own time, which is completely understandable. I could write the worst crap and she’d tell me it was fantastic. Not that I’ve EVER written crap in the 20+ years she & I have been friends, but you get my drift. Bestie #2 suffers from Fibromyalgia with terrible brain fog, so asking her to read 100,000 words, or more, would be akin to asking her to lift a crate of dynamite over her head while setting a match to it.

I then had my writer’s moment of realizing I have no Beta Readers. None whatsoever. And in truth? I don’t really trust anyone with my work. As if it’s been a well-kept secret; I’m a fucking control freak. However, experience has taught me to not only protect my work fiercely, but NEVER to hand it over to someone I haven’t thoroughly vetted.

A friend isn’t always the right person to ask. If they don’t want to hurt your feelings, they’re not going to be 100% honest. As the person “most likely to be intimidating”, I don’t think a single friend of mine would say boo to me when it comes to my work. A few would be honored to read it, and others? Not so much. It’s putting pressure on someone. Plus, most people who aren’t writers themselves can’t point out issues. As an editor, I can point out issues in every single thing I look at that is written, from a restaurant menu to a real estate flyer. I self-correct as people speak; I’m THAT bad.

I don’t worry that what I’ve written isn’t good. I know it is. However, it’s not finished. Until you know the story is done, why would you say “Here, can you read this unfinished manuscript?” Seriously?!

Yesterday I hit 91,000 words on the umpteenth rewrite. The decision to either make this story a one-shot deal (which is what I originally intended) or to turn it into 2-3 books, is an ever-present issue. The longer it gets, the more you have to realize it has branch-out potential. The characters are strong, interesting, and I’d hate to lose them. They’re lighter than what I normally write. Freer. More enjoyable because they’re easier to tap into. It’s a lot like knowing your hands, or your own heart. These characters are pieces of me in a very different way, and I am protective of them.

One day, I will have to let them fly out into the world and be judged. That day is NOT today, in their current state. They need time to blossom and flourish, and that’s normal. I refuse to feel pressured to complete something when I know in my bones that it’s not done. While I was able to get past that feeling of being stuck around page twenty-five, I no longer feel that way any more. I do, however, feel like the story needs a break from me looking at it fifty times a day. Progress does not occur when you psychoanalyze and criticize your own body of work for ten hours, or more, each day. That’s not productive.

So instead of staying up until 3:30 in the morning writing, which I’ve been doing for weeks and weeks, I went to bed early last night and actually got under six hours of sleep (which is the new norm post-Spring Forward). If I hadn’t hurt a toe in my sleep (No, I have NO idea how I did it. I just know it hurts and I had to take care of it immediately.) and been searching for the Neosporin, thus letting Kitten know that Mommy is awake because I was rummaging around in the dark, I might still be asleep. Instead, her Majesty thinks it’s breakfast time. It’s not. I went into the kitchen and food bowls are still filled, water bowl is good, and breakfast isn’t until about 8:30 a.m. If she keeps being aggressive, I may have to feed them earlier, but this usually results in the death stare at 3:00 in the afternoon while I’m trying to work. Once you’ve got two sets of eyes on you, it’s harder to say “You have another hour before you’re getting fed.” They’re not being starved. I actually just switched them over to a new grain-free food this weekend. I do think she wants attention because the rain is coming down hard and it makes her nervous, but mostly, I know my cat. She’s all about the food. LOL.

Today I feel like I can look at the manuscript with fresher eyes. I can get the Lexicon prepared for the beginning of the book and maybe do a few other things that until recently, I just haven’t had the head for.

The freedom of working with personal deadlines, instead of rigid ones, it that I’m answering to myself. I’ve already achieved a LOT by writing this multiple times, and writing three different alternatives to the beginning of the story. I’m not patting myself on the back, but I’m not sitting here in shame, either.

If the average reader understood how long it takes for a quality book to be written, edited, and published, they’d be shocked. An author friend of mine, who is currently dealing with copyright infringement lawsuit (someone stole her work and didn’t credit her for it), is paid fifty cents  (U.S.) for every book sold. She’s a very interesting writer, spiritual, thought-provoking, and her take-home is fifty cents per book. Years worth of work put into each book she writes to share with the world, and that’s the paycheck. I was BEYOND insulted for her. And yet, this is often the norm. If she sells 20,000 books, her take-home is $10,000, before taxes. After taxes, it’s a grave insult, but this is such a common theme. It’s why so many people have turned away from traditional publishing and have started self-publishing. And yet, most self-published titles (not all, just most) are poorly edited, riddled with mistakes and major errors, and read like first drafts that were rushed. So when a close friend asked if I thought my manuscript would sell “this month”, I had to explain to her that it is a lengthy, oftentimes frustrating process to get anything sold.

Moreover, I have committed myself to writing a spec piece on Chronic Pain disorders and actual pain patients’ experiences from diagnosis to now. I will be interviewing people by phone and e-mail to get their stories into a series of articles. I write this in the hope that our voices will be heard, but I’m also not selling it for pennies on the dollar, either. It’s an important story that needs to be told, and who better than a pain patient to tell the story? People are reading, and believing, an awful lot of bullshit produced by the media on this particular subject. Patients are outraged, and yet, few of them are willing to stand up and speak up. Venting on message boards and in groups is a waste of time, but participating in something bigger? That’s how you get the right people to listen. If any reader would like to be a part of this, please feel free to leave me a comment and let me know you’d like your story told. I will be changing names for those who aren’t entirely comfortable with their business being put out there for the world,

Today is a brand new day. There’s work to be done, laundry to be washed, phone calls to be made, but if anyone is going to be reading my work this week, it’s gonna be me.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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Friday Night Rewrites

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I started rewrites on this novel late last night/very early this morning. I’m fifty pages in and I’ve never felt more like crying for a protagonist in my life. For the record; she’s never made me feel like this before, so I feel protective and unsure.

I thought a new introduction to the story would be better, or at the very least, give me a third option to present. Instead, I find myself struggling. I get the distinct impression this is what April is really bringing me; stress. 😦

I love this story and I’ve enjoyed writing it, but this rewrite is making me doubt myself. I hate to admit it, but I’m not a born writer of fiction. It’s not what I cut my teeth on day in and day out. My brain doesn’t function in alternative realities or universes, unless written by others. However, I AM determined to get this written. I just have to be realistic about my time and energy. I have to cut myself some slack and not expect perfection. I’m at that point where I just have to write and write well. No bullshit, no filler, no nonsense. Just pure story.

I’m exhausted and burnt out. Every time I take an hour to distract myself, I find myself back in front of the damn file, trying to work out the story and get it back on track. The problem with this rewrite though is that the others were completely on track, and this one is a new direction. The direction is scary, but I have to allow it to play out before I decide if it’s good or if it belongs in the scrap yard.

Yesterday someone told me I’m “an amazing writer”. I politely said “Thank you.” because what else was I supposed to say? However, today is one of those days where I wish I was a little less something and a little more something else. I’m not entirely sure what though. 😦

Wishing you all a peaceful, relaxing weekend. If you get stressed, keep in mind that I’m sitting in front of the screen with a migraine and neck pain, wishing this story would unfold instead of cause me emotional heartache. To add insult to injury, I need a new heating pad for my neck. I’m not sure how I killed mine, but it hates me. Bleh!

Back to the grindstone…

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Square One

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Square One

What happens when you’ve written multiple drafts of the same novel, in a month, and you find yourself liking both versions that are relatively complete? I suspect this doesn’t happen to a lot of people, but it has happened to me.

After staring at each of them on and off for a full day, I had a little breakdown I will call my “What The FUCK?!” moment. How was it possible that I wrote two versions, each one taking a different course of action, only for me to really like both of them? I stared at all the work done and said “Okay. You can start over, taking the best of both worlds and re-fashion the story into something stronger, and or you can do another rewrite from scratch.” And then, I bitched and moaned about having to rewrite it from another perspective.

Apparently, I don’t really know how to take a break from writing when the work is good. It’s frustrating. I feel a strong sense of responsibility to these characters and I want to tell their story the best way I know how. But honestly, I’m not sure how to do that at the moment. It makes me feel like I just wasted a month of devotion and effort, when in reality, the fact that I accomplished it at all was a combination of fortitude, stubbornness, and luck.

No one ever publishes their first draft, or even their fifth. Hell, an agent won’t even touch it if it’s not the very best version you can present. Both of these were number seven, I believe (I could be wrong, statistically it happens on occasion.). So, I am opening file number eight in the hopes that this time, I nail it. However, I’m going to stop pressuring myself to write every single day. I am going to let the story shape itself and take flight. I’m giving it a pair of wings.

This time, the story is going to be permitted to take me on a natural journey. I genuinely hope this one is the winner.

copyright © 2017 by Lisa Marino & Blackbird Serenity, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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