"There are so many things that I don't understand...There's a world within me that I cannot explain"

The title is from a song on the new Daft Punk album, Random Access Memories, which I completely love.

Once upon a time, two months ago, I had an accidentally awesome April where everything came together. And here it is, June, and I want to run upstairs and scream from my beautiful rooftop into the beautiful Seattle sunset that I’m so happy. Only, I can’t. Because just as soon as April built me up, May came along and broke my heart.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still incredibly happy. But almost everyone else I care about has either recently had something awful happen to them or is going through something so painful, I can’t help but be heartbroken. When other people’s sadness is actually keeping you up at night, you know shit’s getting real.

It started with the text from Madame President, my D.C. political goddess friend. Her ten year old dog, her constant companion, was diagnosed with lymphoma. She did everything to make him comfortable until he died, of course. Her dog is Dexter’s age. Not only did it remind me of the inevitable, but it wrecked me because I know how it feels to bond with an animal for that long.

A couple of years ago the two year old son of a woman I went to high school with was diagnosed with leukemia. He went into remission, but as of a few months ago it’s back with a vengeance. They spent much of the month of May on the East Coast as the little guy endured one final round of treatment in hopes of getting his levels low enough so he could qualify for an experimental treatment that could save him.

It didn’t work. So they’ve flown him home and are currently spending as much time as they can with their son, their baby girl and their family. I read the updates and look at the pictures and I’m just devastated. He’s four years old. He’s so precious, and they’re so wonderful. It’s not fair. I don’t even know her well enough to do anything real for her. So I sit here behind the computer screen and feel powerless and horrified.

My beloved free-spirited, world traveling, whiskey drinking friend E also found out her sexy man’s tumors are growing. He has fought hard, and for awhile things looked good. Now they look uncertain, at best. He started another round of chemo this week and once again, they’re playing the waiting game. No couple in their 20’s should ever have to play this waiting game, but the fact that my E is playing it with someone she loves kills me. I don’t ever know what to do or say so I sit there and I listen to her and I think of the days when we worked together, IMing each other and crying behind our hair.

I’d like to say that’s it, but it’s not. I’m watching two friends battle their issues in therapy and even though making changes is better than giving up and living a less than stellar life, change is still hard and it’s so hard to watch them hurt. I’ve got another friend that needs therapy desperately but I don’t know her well enough to tell her so I just keep it to myself. My brother is going through a world of shit, but I won’t get into that because he and I have a deal where we don’t air each other’s dirty laundry and I expect him to respect that when he gets a book deal one day. There have been apartment fires and relationship issues and other bullshit, too.

But just when I was ready to write May off as the month that could not get any worse for everyone I hold dear, I got the worst news of all. And no, it’s not “worse” than cancer… the fact is, pain is pain, and no one else’s sorrow is any less serious than anyone else’s. We can’t be comparing other people’s tragedies. This one hit the hardest because it hit the closest to home.

A couple I’ve known for ten years is heading for divorce for some really horrible but completely stupid reasons. They love each other deeply. I was the maid of honor in their wedding and I looked into their eyes when they spoke their vows. They both mean more to me than they will ever know, and they have something real and beautiful.

It’s a long story and I won’t betray anyone’s privacy, but even from 280 miles away I can see exactly what’s going on because I know these people. I know them almost as well as I know myself because I spent so much time learning about myself right alongside them. I want to fly across the state, knock on his door and shake him back to reality. I want to remind him of who he is and who he’s not. But things are so crazy and messed up, I can’t even do that right now. All I can do is sit here in disbelief and shock.

It’s her who is being betrayed, but in a way it feels like I’m being betrayed too because I want him to be who I thought he was. I’ve never felt this way about anything before, but I am deeply emotionally invested in their lives. I’m shocked, I’m devastated and I am still hoping it’s a bad dream I’ll wake up from. We were going to go to Vegas together and raise our babies together and now I can’t even talk to him. I hope he at least finds my blog somehow so that he knows how much I care and that I would be there for him if I could. Right now all I can do is be there for her, and it breaks my heart to see her hurting.

I’ve received so much horrible news lately that when a friend came to Seattle and announced that she was moving from Vancouver to somewhere in Canada far, far away, I was actually happy because she didn’t tell me that she’s dying. Then I felt like a giant asshole because she is so sad that she’s leaving that she drove all the way down here to tell her friends in person, and I jumped for joy like it’s good news that I’ll only see her once a year.

June started out amazingly well, to say the least. I am healthy, happy and in love. The weather is warm and Seattle is sun drunk. I read my horoscope today and allegedly I’m about to have my best, luckiest month of the year. That’s great, because whether it’s mine or someone else’s, I really don’t think I can handle any more bad news for a minute. I’m optimistic for the near future, but something tells me I’ll be dealing with the scars from May for quite awhile.

I detoxed from sugar...and survived

Here in Seattle, it seems that at least half my friends are on a cleanse or detox at any given time. It’s completely common to hear “Sorry, I can’t make it to happy hour, I’m detoxing” or “can’t do dinner- cleansing!” One of my good friends did a remarkable 21 Day Adventure Cleanse through New Age health guru Kris Carr, while another one is currently doing a six week program.

While there are plenty of crap products and stupid gimmicks on the market, I firmly believe that a good detox once in awhile is incredibly healthy if it’s done right. As long as your body is getting the nutrients it needs, cutting the crap out for awhile is a great thing. It’s not a good long-term diet plan, but it’s a nice way to say, “Hey body. Thanks for dealing with all the cupcakes and Fireball shots. Here’s some green juice.”

Personally, I suck at detoxing. I have tried many times over the last few years. But not only do I live amongst the best bars and sinful but delicious food spots in the city, but it seems there’s always an event I don’t want to miss where temptation will be too great to resist. And the few times I have managed to cut crap out entirely for a week, I always let myself have coffee with So Delicious creamer…which, while far better than the chemical shit storm that is Coffeemate, is still not the best.

So, after a round of antibiotics for last month’s sinus infection wreaked total havoc on my body, I found myself tired, sluggish, foggy and, well, gross. I knew what had to be done. I knew I had to detox, and I had to stick with it. So I went to work to find out the two most important things: 1. What kind of detox/cleanse would be best for me and 2. The very least amount of time I could cleanse my body and get results. Hey, I’m no fool.

The answers I found were the ones I’d been dreading. What I needed was a strict sugar detox, or mini Candida cleanse (my issue hadn’t progressed badly enough to go full-on Candida diet for a long length of time, THANK GOD). Basically, I had to starve the overgrowth of bad bacteria out of my body. This meant depriving my body of sugar… all sugar, even fruit.

I’d heard nightmare stories from people who had detoxed from sugar… stories of terrible mood swings, physical withdrawals and fits of rage. I figured I was in for the worst of the worst. The thing is, I know how terrible sugar is, but I LOVE it. I don’t have a sweet tooth. I have a mouth full of sweet teeth. I love fruit, I love cupcakes and I love ice cream. While I don’t eat the stuff daily, I feared what cutting myself off cold turkey for the first time in my life would do.

The good news is that I learned the “die off” phase of the evil Candida is fairly fast if you go hardcore like I planned to do, and I could pull off a successful detox in a week. Coffee isn’t banned, but since I can’t stomach black coffee, I decided to do something I’ve never done in my adult life: detox from caffeine for a week also. I stocked up on probiotics, read a ton of information about Candida killing foods and what I could eat (not much), and prepared myself for the Ultimate Sugar Withdrawal.

Truthfully, after an unhealthy trip to Vegas followed by a month of bad food decisions, I was ready to detox. And to my great, great surprise, I really didn’t crave sugar the entire week. I figured I’d be crying over pictures of donuts and dreaming of strawberries and sundaes. None of that happened. There was definitely a test of willpower when I had to write about some delicious local bakeries and gelato shops for a freelance job, describing their best treats and looking at pictures, but aside from a little stomach growling and drooling, I was just fine.

What almost killed me was the lack of coffee. Given the fact that I’m just a one or two cup a day kind of girl, and I’ve skipped a day now and then with no ill effects, my tortuous withdrawal from my morning brew shocked me. All the herbal tea in the world didn’t make up for my daily delicious cup of Caffe Vita with two tablespoons of So Delicious Coconut Creamer. It was all I longed for.

I was so hung up on missing coffee I pretty much forgot about sugar. Despite allowing myself adequate sleep every night, I was so exhausted I could only bring myself to complete two 30 minute workouts all week. I felt like I should have been thriving, but I was dragging ass.

I’ve always prided myself on not having an addictive personality, something I’ve certainly put to the test. I brag about it to others. And yet, here I am, a total coffee addict for God knows how long.

So these are the lessons that a week of living mainly off kale, garlic, quinoa, broccoli and spinach taught me:

1. I am not nearly as addicted to sugar as I thought I was.

2. I am completely addicted to coffee.

3. I don’t eat as badly as I thought I did. It took my week of “perfection” to see that my regular diet isn’t all that bad. Yes, I eat fattening restaurant food, I love cheese, I eat too much sugar and I probably drink too much alcohol for my optimal health. But I also eat a shitload of kale and other nutrient-dense organic food, and I’m going to start giving myself more credit for that.

As far as my coffee addiction, at this point, I have no plans to try and quit the stuff. I will always try to keep it to one cup a day, and I will do periodic detoxes. But there’s nothing like waking up in the morning knowing that in between getting up and going to work there’s a giant cup of delicious organic brew awaiting me. And with every study that comes out claiming coffee is terrible, another study comes out touting its benefits. So I’ll keep my coffee and the world can keep its Happy Jessica.

I highly encourage everyone, even you amazing uber healthy types, to do a periodic detox now and then. Listen to your body, do your research, and you’ll know what it needs. The results just might surprise you. 

Why I'm sad right now

I wanted to write a happy post. But I can’t.

I want to write about how incredible, insane, hilarious and ridiculous my trip to Las Vegas was. I want to write about how I reconnected with my best friend and how we partied harder at 31 than we ever did at 21.

I want to write about how I genuinely enjoy my new job, how I’m being trained in SEO and Google Analytics and all the things I’ve needed to learn to excel at my career but have never taken the time to learn on my own.

But I can’t write about any of that right now, because I’m sad. I’m sad about our society and what’s being accepted as “normal” and “OK.” I’m sad at the headlines I keep reading, at the comments people keep making that they think are OK to make, and at the disgusting victim-blaming. And I need to get it off my chest. I’ve started many happier blog posts, but I keep coming back to this.

The subject I’m so upset about is difficult to talk about, much less write about: rape culture. People love to think our society is fine and rape is clearly defined and punished. But I’ve realized that people are wrong. It’s happening everywhere, it’s happening more than we think, and it’s being excused and accepted.

I live in Seattle and am surrounded by progressive, sex positive feminist badasses. So naturally, the subject gets talked about on occasion. But what really opened my eyes to just how bad our society is, initially, was the horror of the Steubenville case. And it wasn’t even the actual atrocities committed that night that opened my eyes, as disgusting as they were. It wasn’t even the way those vile boys photographed and video taped their own evidence, as if they were proud.

I can’t bring myself to re-cap what happened to that girl that night. Here’s a link to the Wikipedia page in case anyone needs a refresher: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steubenville_High_School_rape_case

What horrified me the most and bitch slapped me into reality was the public’s reaction to it. When the boys were found guilty, newscasters commented on how sad it was that their lives had been ruined. The public seemed to agree, chastising the girl for getting drunk and “making bad decisions.” The comments on the news articles horrified me.

But this Buzzfeed article with screen shots of actual reactions made me physically ill and unable to sleep at night (warning, humanity at its worst ahead):

http://www.buzzfeed.com/jpmoore/23-people-who-think-the-steubenville-rape-victim-is-to-blame

Aside from my whirlwind trip to Europe, I really only drank alcohol twice in high school. One time I drank a couple of wine coolers before getting sick from the sugar and giving up on getting a buzz. But the other time, my first time drinking alcohol in my life, was a disaster. I had no idea what I was doing. I drank beers, schnapps, wine coolers, anything I could get my hands on. Needless to say, I was a mess, falling down stairs, laughing at everything and lying dramatically on my friends’ shoulders. The next day I was sick as a dog, naturally.

Some people who were at that party accused me of faking being drunk, which was hilarious since I would’ve had no idea how to do that. And yes, I regrettably smooched someone that I normally wouldn’t have (but consented to, fully, because beer goggles are a thing). But that’s the worst that happened. Thank God. I didn’t black out, but I was in NO position to make good decisions, nor could I hold my alcohol. I easily could have been that poor girl, as could any teen girl in America who makes the decision to drink.

That girl in Steubenville chose to drink underage. That was the only thing she did wrong. When someone is passed out, you cannot blame them for a damn thing, much less initiating sex. And yet, people did blame her, labeling her a whore. Two teenage girls were even charged with threatening the victim, which is exceptionally awful. And society wept for these “poor teen boys’ lives being ruined” at the hands of this “evil little slut.”

And it hit me just how deep the problem goes. It’s not just about actual rape, it really is a rape culture we’re living in….in the United States, in 2013. And let me just state a fact…not an opinion, a fact: if a woman does not fully consent to what’s being done to her, what is being done to her is rape. It does not matter if she gets drunk and flirts with you all night, then changes her mind about sealing the deal. It does not matter if she’s had 500 partners in her past, what she is wearing or how much she drinks. Rape is rape, it is a crime, and there is no excuse for it.

One of the biggest problems is the assumption that rape is always committed by a stranger. One day I read a frightening account of a young woman who was raped by her boyfriend at 19 on one of my favorite sites, thefrisky.com. She was in her bedroom with her boyfriend and they were making out. She decided she didn’t want to have sex. He decided he didn’t want to accept her answer. The comments, from both men and women, were shocking: “Why didn’t you run? Why did you go into your bedroom with him if you didn’t want to have sex? What were you thinking?”

No… no. Not what was she thinking…she made a decision and informed her partner of that decision. He was the one who decided to commit a crime. Really, I don’t understand the gray area here. But I understand why people are thinking this way. People are being allowed to think this way and even encouraged to think this way. We’ve got assholes like Donald Trump spewing out their ignorant opinions like garbage, implying that men simply can't help it.

Rapists are rarely big hulking men who hide in bushes. The fact is, 90% of rapes on college campuses are committed by someone the victim knows. And as for the fact that a rapist is always some giant man no woman can fight off, well, I know for a fact that’s not true.

I am quite lucky in the sense that I’ve never been raped…it’s sad that I have to consider myself blessed for never having experienced the horror, but that’s a whole different post. But I have been sexually assaulted. It was a long time ago, and I healed from it many years ago. But it wasn’t by a stranger, and it certainly wasn’t by a big strong man. And it wasn’t any kind of struggle like in the movies. I was simply mentally manipulated, something happened I did not consent to, I went home in shock, eventually realized what had happened, healed from it and moved on. And it was not, in any way, my fault. 

What happened to me many years ago happens all the time, every day, to women and girls of all ages. And no matter what they’re wearing, what they’re doing or what they’re drinking, it’s wrong. And I’m really, really fucking tired of them being told by society that it is partially their fault. And furthermore, I’m really tired of people rolling their eyes or labeling me some kind of “militant feminist” every time I bring it up. I was actually worried about writing about this for fear of getting labeled. Well label me all you want, because I'm tired of not talking about it.

On that note, I’m also sick to death of the “What if it was your sister?” excuse that we use to try and humanize rape victims to the fucktards who victim blame. Are you kidding me? Every single woman who is raped is someone’s daughter, friend, sister or mother. It makes no difference whether you know her or not.

In addition to being degrading to women, I honestly find victim blaming degrading to men as well. Men are being brought up to believe that they can’t control their urges, that they will commit rape if a woman tempts them enough. That’s bullshit. With some obvious exceptions (Donald Trump, for one), men are highly emotionally intelligent creatures fully capable of knowing how to ask for consent… and they are also emotionally able to determine when they are about to fuck up and do something wrong. Let's give them both credit and accountability.

Of course I am all for women learning self defense training, and I am all for being responsible and learning to stop drinking before you black out (because in addition to crimes happening, you also get dangerously ill). I am also aware that we won’t achieve a perfect society anytime soon and bad things will happen.

But there’s so much we can do…today, right now. We can change the way we think, all of us. Mothers and fathers can teach their little boys from a very young age that no ALWAYS means no and everyone, girls and boys, should be respected. We can fight back against the mentality that starts in high school with the slut-labeling. But I don’t see it happening enough.

And that’s why I’m sad right now. 

And then everything came together: the tale of my accidentally awesome April

“I know this is a long shot,” the text began. It was from my best friend, Yennifer, and it made my heart sink because she was right. Whatever she needed, whatever she was about to propose, I had a feeling I’d have to turn her down, which I did not want to do.

It was mid-March and, as usual, my life and finances were in chaos. I was struggling trying to balance my demanding day job, my ongoing freelance job which I’d just started weeks before, my social life and my marriage while struggling to get the bills paid. I knew I had no time or money to do whatever Yennifer was asking me.

But what she was asking me was simply too wonderful to pass up: returning to my beloved Las Vegas. She’d been planning the trip for months with her friend A, but when A contracted a horrible case of mono, Yennifer knew she wouldn’t be able to go. And for the cost of my flight, I could take A’s place. I told her I’d have to see, but inside I was already crunching numbers.

I requested the time off work, got my first freelance check as well as a check from another writing job, and booked a flight down for a remarkably low price. And right away, something shifted in me. While it won’t be my first or even my fifth trip to Sin City, I am just as excited to go as I was the first time. Just having that light at the end of the tunnel, a break in my daily routine with someone I have missed dearly, woke me up from a funk I didn’t even know I was in.

My mood improved. I started talking to my co-workers more and being nicer to strangers. If I started to feel down, I pictured myself sitting by the pool with Yennifer and the other ladies who are going, and I felt better.  I never would have been able to plan a Vegas trip at this point in my life, but having one placed lovingly into my lap like that was beyond awesome. By the beginning on April, I had an official itinerary and a ton of excitement.

Something else happened, too. While trying to raise money for all the overpriced Vegas entertainment, I started brainstorming creative ways to make money from my writing. I started writing an Ebook on Vegas (which I would publish if I had five minutes and a working laptop…seriously, I’ve killed two laptops in a month which is NO BUENO FOR MY WRITING CAREER). I started applying for more freelance jobs. And on one rainy Saturday afternoon, I applied for a writing job I found on Craigslist just for the hell of it. I have found a few gems on Craigslist, but overall I find it to be saturated with scammers and jerks who ask you to “write writing samples” they end up using and not paying for.

This particular job was for a website that made party invitations and stationery. They were looking for someone to write about parties, aka the perfect little side job for me. I fired off my resume and a cover letter, not expecting much since it was Craigslist. The following week I received an email stating that I was a top candidate, asking for a writing sample that they’d pay me for if they didn’t hire me. Fair enough. I spent a good deal of time on my writing sample, figuring if nothing else, I’d have a nice little bonus.

Then I had a phone interview with one of the owners, followed by an in person interview….followed by an offer not for a side job but for a full-time position. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe it. I asked for a day to think about it, laughing at the fact that my offer had come on April Fool’s Day and no one I texted believed me at first.

After a chat with Mr. W and a good night’s rest, I realized that this opportunity was exactly what I needed. It’s an awesome shot at helping a great company develop their voice and a chance to really get creative. It’s an escape from the stressful monotony my job has become. And best of all, they’ll allow me to work from home part-time. Saving an hour a day a few times a week will mean more workouts, less money spent on gas and more time to write about what I want to write about. That Wednesday I put in my notice at work and signed an offer letter to begin the new job upon my return.

So, completely by accident and within a month of feeling discouraged and lost, I’ve managed to line up the perfect April: finishing up my current job, taking a week off in between to relax and live it up in Vegas, and then starting something new that I’m really excited about. My friends and family have been overwhelmingly supportive. My co-workers and managers seem genuinely bummed to see me go which means I must have done something right. A lot of other little life details have fallen into place too, so much so that I’m actually considering gambling in Vegas and seeing just how far I can ride this lucky streak.

I have always believed that life can change in an instant, but now I am living it. After two years in Seattle I can finally drop the “fake it ‘till you make it” mindset and just make it. After all, someone selected me to represent their company above hundreds of applicants based solely on my writing. In a city like Seattle that is full of genuine talent, that must mean something.

The best part is... I am just getting started.

Emerald City musings

It’s a little dreary here in Seattle today, but last weekend was chock full of sunshine and warmth. When that happens, the Emerald City morphs from a mumbling, passive aggressive, eye-contact-avoiding bunch to a hoard of happy people seemingly chasing tabs of Ecstasy with Prozac infused water. The difference is so noticeable that we've invented a term for it: sun drunk.

I'm guilty of it myself. It's not that I'm not friendly. I like saying hi to strangers and getting to know my neighbors. I'm just normally lost in my thoughts when I'm strolling through the city streets. Also, it’s tough to decipher between an unwashed hipster and a homeless person about to ask me for money, so I just avoid interaction. But when the sun is out, everyone becomes my best friend and everything they say is instantly hilarious.

The other day I laughed as I caught my reflection in a store window: black skinny pants tucked into my super-stylish rain boots, trench coat tied around my waist, scarf wrapped like a pro around my neck, Starbucks cup in hand. I was on my way to a local bookstore (no corporate chains!) to pick up the latest book for my feminist book club.

Could I BE any more Seattle right now?  I thought.

As of mid-March, I have been an official Seattle resident for two years. And while I still feel like a newb in some ways, there's no mistaking it: I have taken on some new habits and tendencies common of the local folk. For example:

  I can navigate my car through rush hour traffic on I 5 like it’s nothing. Insane traffic build-up by the on ramp? No problem, I will work my way in. Even my new Nissan Rogue, which has crazy blind spots, doesn’t deter me from jumping on the freeway if it gets me where I need to be.

·         I am busy… like, really crazy busy. I am busier than I have ever been in my life. A typical week for me involves dragging myself out of bed early enough to cram in a quick workout before I head to work, at which time I pack every possible thing into my evening before going to bed to do it all again. Happy hours, poetry readings, shows, art gallery openings and girls’ nights seem to happen constantly. During my limited downtime I work on creative writing and look for more writing opportunities. And I love it. I haven’t been bored for one single second since moving here. Not one.

·         I am officially a coffee snob. Though I defend Starbucks with my highest honor, I am well aware it’s far from the best stuff, especially in this city. And one cup is no longer enough to satisfy my daily caffeine craving. I can drink it well into the afternoon and still sleep like a baby that night. That’s definitely new. And don’t even get me started on how much of a food snob I’ve become. I cannot even fathom why Applebee’s exists.

But sometimes, even as I’m dressed like a Seattleite discussing the latest Capitol Hill bar happenings, my inner country girl returns with a vengeance. For example:

·         Instead of white guilt, I have pedestrian guilt. I know how tough driving here can be, especially in my neighborhood, and I refuse to be the asshole that sloooowly saunters across the street or screws a person out of making a left turn in time. I pay careful attention to the cars and anticipate their next move. If drivers do wave me over, I do a very awkward run. I believe this is good karma that returns to me, as more often than not I am blessed with pedestrians that hustle through crosswalks when I’m behind the wheel.

·         I hate… hate… horn honks. I understand they are necessary, but people in this city are entirely too honk-happy and it drives me insane. My nerves are permanently frazzled from being jerked out of a state of zen from a loud BEEP because some asshole decided the car in front of him isn’t going through a green light fast enough. I do use my horn when someone invades my lane or something, but very rarely will I honk out of anger. The other day a dude honked his horn because that was how he chose to tell me he thought I was pretty. I actually screamed. I hate horn honks.

·         I still hate getting rained on. I have come to accept the rain. I love the way it smells and I love the sound of it on my window. But I hate walking in it. The slightest drizzle makes me bust out my umbrella, which is considered a sign of weakness here. People look at me like I must be from out of town. Well, I am, and my hair is frizzy as hell, so I just smile back and strut down the street under my little cover.

I like this little blend of urban life with suburban tendencies I’ve got going on. As I enter my third year here in the city, I’ve come to realize there’s something really special about living here as an adult who didn’t grow up in the area. As transplants, we can appreciate our fresh perspectives while still remembering where we came from. But whether we’ve lived here for five minutes or fifty years, every Seattleite can agree on one thing… when returning to the city after time away, the first glimpse of the skyline takes our breath away. 

Another $%#@! epiphany: part two

After 31 years on this planet, I've come to recognize that the way I process things comes in a series of cycles. I set a goal, I throw myself into it, often losing touch of whether or not I'm happy. I go into denial, ignoring the signs that it's not right. Then I have a series of epiphanies and an intense wake-up call before I finally admit the truth to myself. What normally follows is a big, bold move, a leap of faith. Sometimes I land. Sometimes I get squished like a bug on the windshield. But I never stop leaping.

One day my best friend told me I needed to stop "waiting" for opportunities to come to me and create my own. It hurt my feelings, because I thought she was implying that I was sitting on my ass waiting for the right job to find me which was the furthest thing from the truth. I was sacrificing every evening to the mundane task of job-hunting, often at the expense of relaxing for a few blissful moments before I had to wake up and do it all again.

But I thought about what she said. And I thought about the business idea that's been forming in my mind for years, that I put on the back burner because it wasn't the right time or I didn't have any money. And I realized what she meant, and that she's right. With few exceptions (there is one company in this area that I'd sell my soul at a chance to work for, no matter what the hours are, because their passion is the same as mine), I'm never going to be happy working for someone else, working on someone else's dream.

I'm tired of trading my life for something that's never going to pay off for me. I want to spend it doing what I want to do. And I owe it to myself to try. That's the scariest part. I've tried and I've failed so many times, I don't know how much more I can take. But through all my many failures, at the end of the day, I've always still had the things that matter most to me, my husband and my health.  Staying where I am will surely rob me of at least one.

I have often been guilty of using timing as an excuse. And now is far from an ideal time to start a new project. But now I see that there never will be an ideal time. And if I keep putting it off, I'm never going to do it. It might take me years, but it's better than waking up at 40 going, "I wish I had started this at 31!"

And it's not like I won't have any support. Seattle is filled to the brim with strong, savvy, smart, amazing, wealthy female business owners who have broken free of the 9 to 5 and followed their hearts….successfully. I'll have support groups, networking events and plenty of paths paved for me. Now is an amazing time for a woman to become an entrepreneur. It's the motherfucking age of Aquarius, for crying out loud.

All this has been on my mind for months, but it took an invitation to my sweet Sin City to lure me into action. My Spokane-dwelling best friend Yennifer, whom I miss every day, was all set to go to Vegas next month with her friend A. Except poor A contracted a horrible worst-case-scenario case of mono with terrifying side effects. She needs to rest, and Vegas is not where you go to rest.

I've been invited to take A's place. And no matter what my situation is in life or how abysmal my finances look, you cannot just dangle a trip to Vegas in front of me and expect me to pass it up. I agreed to go, which has put me into serious hustle mode. Now instead of spending evenings and weekends applying for jobs that will bring me more of the same feelings, most of which I wouldn't actually want, I spend my time doing freelance work with a purpose (VEGAS!) and figuring out how to make my vision a reality.

Travel is everything to me. And while I love that my company has a very generous Paid Time Off policy, I typically can't afford to go anywhere exotic with it. The thought of not being able to travel, because of money or any other reason, is devastating to me. The thought of turning down Yennifer's awesome invitation was more than I could bear.  No secure job, with all its benefits and stability, is worth it if I can't ever do what I want to do. I do not live to work, nor do I work simply to survive.

This isn't about having a sense of entitlement, where I feel that I deserve to have it all for nothing or be overpaid for what I do. It's about working hard for myself, on my dreams (which fortunately involve helping others), and being able to afford random Vegas trips with Yennifer or even retreats to Hawaii to finish my book because I have a flexible schedule and the money to fund them. That's far better than a generous allotment of vacation days that right now I'm using one at a time for things like catching up on errands or cleaning my apartment. True story.

I think everyone on Earth deserves to be happy and live their dreams, myself included. I want to work for myself, and I want to travel. If I am burned out on a Friday night, I want it to be because I have put so much effort into my dreams that I am completely exhausted but have a giant smile on my face….not because I have stayed late under the fluorescent lights every single night that week, being thanked with the offer of a warm PBR. Also a true story. 

I have no idea what my steps will be, how long it will take, or what the end result will be. But I'm finally ready to start taking those steps. If it leads to nothing, at least I will know I tried. And if it leads to a break in the repetitive cycle, no more denial, no more bold life-changing moves and no more turning down trips I'm desperate to take, it will be worth every minute. 

Another $%#@! epiphany: part one

Important note: I purposely have never stated where I work on Twitter or in this blog for reasons of self-protection. I do not wish to accidentally slander my company, nor get into any kind of trouble for my thoughts. My work and life are separate. Everyone reading this who knows where I work is being respectfully asked to keep it private for my sanity's sake. Thank you!

I've started this blog post many different times, in many different ways. I've started it with a joke. I've started it with a story. I've started it from the beginning. But no matter how I start it, the point I'm trying to make doesn't get any more lighthearted or less terrifying…..

I am unhappy with work and I've come to realize the 9 to 5 lifestyle is not for me.

I wanted it to be. I really did. When we first moved to Seattle, I was all about scoring an office job. Shitty lighting, water cooler jokes, a set schedule and a steady paycheck? By God, sign me up.

It wasn't that I didn't love my freelancing life. I did, but after everything went to hell for us and I spent 2010 and 2011 scared out of my mind, I was ready for stability and a routine. I was ready for a paycheck on payday rather than wrestling with freelance clients who are slow to pay and use every excuse in the book.

I was tired of fighting for what I knew I was worth. So I threw in the towel and decided to let someone else decide for me.

 I got the office job, and I liked it. I really, really liked it. It was a laid back culture without the strict dress code and weird HR policies. It was a start-up, and everyone was really young and fun. I made friends fast. My writing improved, a lot. I loved being able to explain what I did for a living without it taking 45 minutes. My parents loved that, in their mind, I was finally using my college degree. I was getting paid to write, damn it, and life was good.

And oh, the benefits. I had never known such benefits! Health insurance that allows me preventative care and massages? Paid vacation? Having those things when I never had was incredible. The first time I ever used a PTO day I felt like I had won the Lotto.

It had its downsides, of course. The salary offered was so abysmal I actually laughed when the recruiter told me over the phone, thinking he was joking (oops). But considering my income had dwindled to zero and rent was looming, I accepted it. I just figured I'd freelance on the side to make up for it. It was a start-up, he explained, so the pay was low. But the company was growing, and eventually the salaries would too.

And boy, did it grow. The company grew, and continues to grow, faster than anything I've ever seen and faster than the founders expected. I can't remember a day in the last two years when I've gone into work and haven't been stressed about my workload. Every time it starts to taper off, we get slammed with new goals, more work, longer days and more stress.

Unfortunately the salaries haven't grown. Because the company started charging us for health insurance this year, I make less than the day I started even though I'm easily doing twice the work.

And I've figured out that the reason some of these companies provide such good health insurance is because you need it. There is sickness all around me in that office. Girls barely out of college are contracting terrible stress-related illnesses, including auto immune diseases. I've been sick more in the last two years than I ever have in my life. I'm soft from lack of exercise. My pride and joy, my flat stomach, is gone because of cortisol caused by stress. Every time I treat myself to one of those $20 massages it's incredibly painful because my stress manifests in my muscles.

I'm not trying to sound ungrateful. I owe the company a lot for hiring me at the scariest time in my life, and there's a lot about my life that's awesome. But the fact is, no matter how healthy I eat, how much water I drink or how much I exercise, I wake up every weekday morning feeling like shit. I feel lethargic and hungover even when I'm not.

When I arrive at my office, a big ball of stress forms in my stomach. I spend the next 8 to 9 hours writing as fast as I can, eating lunch at my desk and getting annoyed with interruptions. By the time I get home, my brain is so dead from writing about clothes that the last thing I want to do is write creatively. And forget freelancing. I have two freelance clients right now, and I can barely muster up the energy to produce their content even though I actually love doing it.

I keep waiting for it to change, and it's just not changing.

I started applying for new jobs after the holidays. We have some really incredible companies here that are internationally known and they pay well. Writers that leave my company usually double their salaries. Except even when I was applying, it didn't feel right. I should have been excited about the prospect of a prestigious career with a well-known company. I wasn't.

I then fell into a deep pit of despair. Why wasn't the thought of climbing up this metaphorical career ladder exciting to me? I have no aversion to hard work—in fact, while I certainly need my vacations, I prefer to work. And while the job market is very competitive here, it's also decent. With opportunities all around me, I should have felt inspired, not heavy. That, combined with the guilty of having such a "first world problem" (oh wah, I'm not happy at my job and struggle to get by, when I've got a million privileges and I know it) weighed heavy on my heart.

Since January I've continued that cycle of dragging myself to work, scowling through my day, applying for jobs at night and getting no satisfaction out of any of it… until, finally, I saw the light. 

To be continued...