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Is There Light At The End of the Tunnel?

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It is hard to believe that I have spent money to maintain a blog site that I haven’t posted on in almost three years. Well, actually, it isn’t that hard to believe. I have unearthed a lot of deeply buried things about myself in that time and am working hard to make sense of all of the stuff that I have learned.

I am going to presume that if you are reading this post, it is because you randomly arrived on this site or you are someone that knows me or follows my blog (if those people still exist). The last three years have been all about making lemons out of lemonade. Two years ago, I lost my job. The job market in general, as most of us know, is terrible. When you factor in my age, the fact that we have one car, and the fact that my primary skill set is being replaced by AI, it makes finding a job very difficult.

A little over a year ago, after a few months of therapy, I came to realize that it was very possible that I had ADHD. My son was diagnosed with ADHD when he was in second grade. So my understanding of it came from his exhibited behaviors, which were things like hyperactivity and externalized frustration. I then came to learn that ADHD is often missed in girls, as their tendency is to internalize their symptoms and have it misdiagnosed as anxiety. After discussion with my therapist and then a psychiatrist, we came to learn that my chronic overwhelm, executive function struggles, emotional dysregulation, inconsistent performance, and dopamine driven behavior were all because I had ADHD. I learned this when I was 56 years old. So, I really identify with Bonnie on Mom. Not only am I a recovering alcoholic, but I was diagnosed as neurodivergent late in life.

Like Bonnie, I have spent a lot of time questioning what could have been if I had been diagnosed properly. Since being diagnosed, I have been taking Vyvanse, and the difference has been astronomical. I used to take naps on a near daily basis. I think I can count on one hand how many times I have napped in the last year. Again, making that proverbial lemonade, I have channeled this newfound energy and focus into understanding my challenges and putting the proper tools in place to overcome them. I have spent the better part of the last year, sorting through boxes and piles that have accumulated in the last 20+ years. In doing so, I have really learned how to make order out of chaos.

A month ago, I was hacked. As a result, our bank account was compromised and all of our money was stolen. Of course, it really was a blessing in horrific disguise because I was able to really assess my digital presence and where our money was being spent. When you are a single income family, knowing where every penny goes is really important. While all of this was happening, a person I had met several years ago at a Pride event reached out and asked if I’d like to join her for lunch. During that lunch, we talked about my unemployment status, and she suggested that perhaps this was the perfect time to shift career paths. The irony is that I had already been thinking the same thing.

When you look at my life and the things that I have done in the past several decades, it really has prepared me for what I believe will be the next chapter. In addition to working full-time whilst raising three children, I spent the last three decades directing and stage managing several theatrical productions. Directors and stage managers have an unbelievable amount of creative and organizational skills. That full-time job? It was primarily focused on data and analytics. When I tell you that I have spreadsheet expertise, it is not an understatement. All of these skills, combined with honing my decluttering and organizational abilities, has perfectly primed me to help others get their lives in order. I truly believe that everything that has been serving as white noise over the past year will help me to build out a brand that, let’s be honest, I have already spent years building: Controlling the Chaos – a service that will help people manage their physical and digital overwhelm.

As I continue to climb out of the darkness and look toward the light, I am also going to make a concerted effort to bring this blog back to life. Of course, if dipping my toe into the professional organizing business ends up with me swimming in a new career, this blog may be focused on that.

The important thing is that I’m following the light and the future is very bright!

In Memory of Theodore Carleton Burtt, Jr.

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Good morning. I’m Alicia – Ted’s eldest daughter. When I Googled how to do this, that was the first thing I was told to do. I was also told to keep this to three minutes. But I am my father’s daughter so…

I’d like to read you a poem that my father wrote for me. It was published in 1970 in his first book of poetry, Breaking Through The Windows To Breathe, also the name of the poem on the back of your bulletin.

TRACING (for Alicia)

Tracing the lines in my daughter’s hand

I can sense places I’ll never see.

Lodged like gorges

Are the tracks, of mystery,

The wetness of discoveries

I have all but forgotten.

There is a crevice,

Folded in by soft skin,

Which hides the secret

I will spend a lifetime

Searching. She moves

And I wonder if, sometimes,

My lines will hold

Reflections for her.

There are a lot of ways that you could describe my father. You can describe him by what he was: He was a family man. He was a teacher. He was a writer. He was an athlete. He was a gardener. You can also describe him by who he was: Honest. Compassionate. Devoted. Kind.

In 1975, before Kramer vs. Kramer even hit theatres, my mother and father divorced. Dad got custody of me and my sister and in small-town Pennsylvania, this was revolutionary. That summer, whilst vacationing at my grandparents’ house in New Hampshire, my father took my sister and I to see the re-release of Bambi. For those of you familiar with that film, it doesn’t end well for Bambi’s mom and my poor father had two very upset young girls on his hands. From that, and I know that Ashley will remember this, the tales of the Tall Princess and the Small Princess were born.

Even my earliest memories of my father are of my father the storyteller.

My grandmother was very proud of her eldest son and one of the things she would repeatedly boast about was my father’s ability to reduce a person to nothing with mere words. And with a twinkle in her eye, she was extra proud because he could do it without profanity. My father was, indeed, a wordsmith.

Some of you may have had the pleasure of knowing my father through the theatre. Perhaps he directed you. Perhaps you shared the stage. Perhaps he wrote a play you performed in. Even after his career path changed, he remained passionate about the theatrical arts. By the way, if you are a director, an actor or a writer, guess what you are? You’re a storyteller.

After my father passed, several people shared remembrances on social media. The word that was used repeatedly was storyteller. I’ve even heard it over the past couple of days. We’ve all heard one of my father’s stories. Some have heard some of my father’s stories several times.

Every year on my birthday, I would receive a call from my father. Those of you who know me, know that I hate talking on the phone. When he called this year, I knew it would be the last time he’d call to wish me a happy birthday. There is a story that he would tell me, almost without fail. I would repeat it now but I don’t think I could without falling apart. Even after hearing the story countless times, this time he shared a detail with me that I’d never heard. That while he was waiting for me to be born that he read The Great Gatsby twice. I’ve never read it once. I will add that to my to do list. But I digress…

My father did not live an easy life. But he lived a full life. He loved deeply. He cared beyond measure. And he led by example.

My father wrote in his poem:

And I wonder if, sometimes,

My lines will hold

Reflections for her.

Well, Dad, they do.

2017: Entre Nous

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For many of us, the year behind us was one of the shittiest we’ve had. The year ahead will probably suck, too. If you haven’t already figured that out, then consider yourself forewarned.

For most of my life, I have eschewed resolutions. I basically felt that making resolutions was just a way of setting myself up for failure. Then I saw Woody Guthrie’s  New Years Rulins and I thought: “Hey, there are ways I can improve my life that are not insurmountable!” (I mean, I can change my socks.)

So for the past couple of years, I’ve tried to embrace the simplified Woody Guthrie approach. Happy to report that I’ve had moderate success.

But here we are on the forefront of 2017 and I feel I need to simplify even more. Because 2016 was complex as hell.

So here you have them. My resolutions for 2017:

  1. Whenever possible, only do things and spend time with people that bring joy.
  2. Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.
  3. If you say you are going to do it, do it. Don’t disappoint the people that bring you joy.
  4. Read more. Write more. Do more jigsaw puzzles.

I mean really. At the end of the day you just need to be happy. And I think this is the formula that will work for me.

Y is for Yesterday: Blogging from A to Z Challenge

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There are three types of people in this world. People that long for yesterday, the ones that eagerly anticipate tomorrow and those that live in the moment. Which one are you?

I admit it. I’m a person that spends a lot of time thinking about yesterdays. When I speak about yesterdays, it is with a very broad scope. There are the yesterdays when I was a child growing up in rural Pennsylvania. And there are the yesterdays spent without my mom. There are also the yesterdays when I was a rebellious teenager largely perceived as a good girl. But let’s not forget the yesterdays of my college years, of my dating years, of my married years or of my parenting years. I also think about yesterday in the literal sense. Today’s yesterday marked one year since the passing of a friend who was very special to me. The point is, I think about yesterdays a lot. Most of those thoughts are about what I would do differently. I am always trying to inch out pangs of regret with the promise of what is possible. Let me tell you, regret is a serious bitch to be reckoned with.

My husband, being the yin to my yang, is the person that looks to tomorrow. He is, without doubt, the optimist in our family. When our usual summer vacation to our favorite spot in Maine was usurped by circumstance, we found ourselves, instead, planning around our limited timeshare and summertime availability. When our destination and calendars were in flux, my husband was unsettled. Every night he would come home to see what exchanges became available, almost lost without something to look forward to. As soon as a destination was booked, there was light on the horizon: maps to plan, restaurants to visit, tourist traps to ensnare us. There is now peace and balance in the world. I think that is why my husband loves Christmas so much. What could me more exciting than six (or more) weeks of planning as a means to a spectacular end?

Obviously (or maybe not so much), it is optimal to live in the moment. To appreciate what is happening now without trying to overcome the past or outdo it with the future is the true zen of life, isn’t it? I valiantly try to appreciate the here and now, I do. But remember, I am a dweller on yesterdays and I understand how crippling that can be to the appreciation of today. My big roadblock, sadly, is that I fear what tomorrow holds more than I look forward to it. I’m still working on that.

I am, always, a work in progress. But I haven’t given up yet.

G is for Gender Variant: Blogging from A to Z Challenge

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This post is a little delayed and for a good reason. It was a post that I wanted to take my time with, not dash off in some hurried manner just to meet a deadline.

Over the past couple of years, there have been several stories that people shared with me about parents who accept and support their children from a very early age as it pertains to their sexual preference and/or gender identity. The most notable stories were the woman whose son was in love with Darren Criss, the family who raised their daughter as a boy and Brangelina’s willingness to call their daughter Shiloh by her preferred name: John. When people share these posts with me or my husband, they usually say something like, “I saw this and it made me think of you guys!” The reason why is because we have a daughter who shares similarities with each of the children in these stories and my husband and I share similarities with their parents. Every time someone shares one of these viral stories, I tell myself that I want to write about my daughter.

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My husband and I have three girls, a fifteen-year-old and twelve-year-old fraternal twins who are as different as night and day. From a very early age, I’m guessing around four, one of my twin daughters began to show signs of gender noncomformity. One morning, as were getting ready for day care, Izzy peered at me from atop the toilet and asked, “When am I getting my peanuts?” Mind you, the male genitalia is not something we generally talked about at the dinner table. Assuming it was because of the shared bathroom experiences in her potty training years at day care, I went with it and said something snarky like, “Why would you want one of those? They cause nothing but trouble.” To which she responded, most assuredly, “Because then I could pull it and tug it like the boys!” She also wanted one because, like every other woman on Earth, she wanted to pee standing up.

In the few short years that followed, our daughter openly identified herself as being gay and would develop crushes on other girls in her elementary school classes. During that same time, she eschewed any feminine clothing, favored playing with her Nerf guns over dolls and eventually chopped off her long, blonde, curly locks in favor of a high and tight hairstyle. It was easy to support these choices for her because it made her happy. To the wait staff in the restaurants, she was always little buddy or dude. Initially, we would correct them but after she told us it didn’t bother her, we stopped.

Halloween

The people that meet Izzy generally fall in love with her. She is energetic, funny, smart, kind and unique. She embraces who she is and so do the people that get to know her. Over the years, I’ve had conversations with people about Izzy and it is interesting what people will say. The most common thing I hear is that she is just a tomboy or probably going through a phase. Yes, it is entirely possible. We all go through phases in life. I have also been told that there is no way that an elementary school aged girl could possibly know whether or not she is gay. I’m sorry, when was it exactly that you knew you were attracted to the opposite sex? There have even been people who have suggested that because my husband and I allow her to make these choices we are encouraging her to be gay. Does that mean that I encouraged my other two girls to be straight?

When Izzy wanted to join scouting, she was disappointed that she couldn’t join the Boy Scouts. She didn’t want to do crafts and sell cookies, she wanted to play basketball and race cars in the Pinewood Derby. Fortunately, the scout leaders got wind of her disappointment and let her join as an honorary member. Those really were the best years for her because she was completely comfortable in her skin, got to do what she wanted to do and with friends who had been going to school with her for six years. They didn’t question her choices, they were just her friends. She got so comfortable that she even came out to a few close friends when she was in fifth grade.

Webelo

As the middle school years approached, we were getting a little nervous and so was Izzy. Middle school, if you recall, is horrible. I know very few people who recollect their middle school/junior high years with great fondness. As Izzy’s elementary school career was ending, marriage equality and a string of teen suicides related to sexual identity were prominent in the media. Izzy developed a heightened sensitivity to issues related to bullying, diversity and acceptance. One afternoon in February, she created a Bob Dylan Subterranean Homesick Blues style video about the topic, in which she wrote:

Hello people.
I don’t have sound so I will write.
Don’t worry. Nothing will be sad.
LOL
People in my school are nice.
They would not if they found out if I was gay.
Get this. I’m a girl.
Thx for watching.

Six months later, Izzy was navigating the nasty terrain of middle school, the place where you desperately want to fit in but still want to be true to yourself. While she continues to remain true to herself, she is a little more quiet about it these days. She finds herself avoiding the bathroom so she doesn’t have to endure the eighth grade girls screaming at her to get out because she’s a boy. Thankfully there are understanding teachers that allow her to go during class time when the bathrooms aren’t filled with classmates asking her if she’s a girl or a boy. She even decided to wear a dress to the school dance after not wearing a dress for five years. This was followed by her requesting to go shopping for some more feminine clothes. Why? So she wouldn’t get questioned when she went to the girls’ room. Seriously, there should be some sort of universal law that mandates unisex bathroom in public places. Just ask Izzy. Or any woman who has stood in line at the theatre or a One Direction concert.

IzzyDresses

A couple of summers ago, my husband and I decided to give the girls the opportunity to go to sleepaway camp. Two of the girls opted to go to the more rustic 4H camp in Windham-Tolland while Izzy, due to an aversion to bugs and an affinity for basketball, when to an indoor Nike camp. Last year Izzy opted not to go to camp. We later discovered that the reason she didn’t want to go to camp was, once again, because of things like being split into boys vs. girls teams or having to decide where to go to the bathroom.

Last week I posted about Camp Aranu’tiq, the summer camp for transgender and gender variant youth located in beautiful New Hampshire. When my husband and I heard about it, we asked Izzy if she’d be interested. Right away she Googled it and soon thereafter gave it an enthusiastic thumbs up, proclaiming, “It’s a camp with people like me!” So now Izzy will get to fish, swim, kayak and play basketball without being concerned about having to dodge a million questions. As for the bugs, that’s another story.

If Izzy decides she would prefer to be called Zack, I’ll do it. If she asks us to switch to male pronouns, we will. If she someday desires to undergo hormone therapy, we will find the money to make it happen. As of today, she hasn’t asked for any of these things. And perhaps she never will. The thing that is most important to me is that my daughter is happy. I am no different from any other parent who strives to have children that are happy and healthy.

Now I don’t profess to be an expert on being transgender or gender variant. I have read a lot about gender variance in the last year or so and I still have much to learn. I can only imagine how it must feel to be in a body that you don’t feel comfortable inhabiting. But I don’t have to imagine what it is like to make every effort to ease any discomfort my daughter may experience by ensuring that she is loved, accepted and supported. Every day. No matter her choices.

And in the end, isn’t that what we all want? Well, that and more unisex bathrooms. And the ability to pee standing up.

On The Importance of Stuff

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Welcome, January, you cruel month you. For the past six weeks most of us have stuffed ourselves with turkey, attended decadent holiday parties, unwrapped gifts galore and rang in the New Year with perhaps a little too much to drink. Now we are perched at the top of 2015 preparing to traverse the road before us, no matter how smooth or rough it may be. We are at the point now when we face the burgeoning debt accumulated over the last few months, start setting our alarm clocks for the daily grind that now seems to grind harder and begin the hibernation forced upon us by winter’s chill.

Yesterday, I was looking for a Phillips screwdriver to fix a chair that had gone wonky. For weeks that screwdriver had been in a certain drawer. Naturally, when I went to get it, it wasn’t there. Was it in the Elf Kit? Was it misplaced after Izzy put batteries in her RC quad-copter? The only thing I knew was that I couldn’t find it when I needed it. So that got me to thinking about the things which I will, for want of a better label, call “my stuff.” I spent a good deal of time this year filling two 10-yard dumpsters with “stuff” that we no longer used or that was damaged beyond repair. There were many moments during that process that the word “stuff” made me think of this infamous George Carlin skit.

Every year, shortly after Thanksgiving, my husband and I get requests for lists of what we want for Christmas. I try throughout the year to add things to my wish list and to my children’s so that when I am asked it is only a matter of sending a hyperlink. As I speed toward my 50th year on this Earth, I find that I am less concerned with tangible objects and more with experiences which, again, leads me think about stuff. So, I’ve come up a timeline, of sorts, about stuff.

Infancy to 3 Years: “I am so glad that there are people that make sure I get all of the stuff I need. Food to eat, clean clothes to wear, a warm place to sleep at night and people to love me because I can’t do that stuff for myself.”

3-10 Years: “I still like the food, the clothes and being warm but now I could really use some stuff to entertain me because, let’s be honest, hanging out with grown-ups is boring unless they are playing with me and my stuff.”

11-15 Years: “I really need more stuff. Stuff that will keep me out of my parents’ hair. Stuff that will make me popular and attractive and stuff that will make people want to be my friend. Also, I wish my siblings would stop touching my stuff.”

15-18 Years: “So you’re telling me that in order to get more stuff I need to get a job and pay for my own stuff? Oh, by the way, thanks for the food, clothing and shelter. Or not. Because I’m a teenager and I’m entitled to all that stuff.”

18-21 Years: “Oh. My. God. My roommate is touching my stuff. Also, can you please send me money and stuff like laundry detergent, Ramen noodles and spending money because they don’t have the same stuff here in the dorm as they do at home?”

21-25 Years: “Wow! I have a credit card and I can buy a lot of stuff for my new apartment and pay for stuff at the bar (and I won’t realize how much it will cost until I am in my thirties). Also, I look amazing in all of the stuff I bought at the mall yesterday. I’ll make my school loan payment tomorrow.”

25-30 Years: “So I can’t buy any more stuff because I have to save money for my wedding and/or down payment on a house/apartment. Once I have the house, though, I will need to fill it with stuff.”

30-35 Years: “Wait! My stuff is now our stuff? WTF? And, Oh. My. God. People are coming over so we need to move “our” stuff out of the way so that people think we live life according to Martha Stewart Living.”

35-45 Years: “After I have spent most of my money on a mortgage and paying bills, anything I have left is spent on buying stuff for my kids. Also, it would appear that my stuff is now their stuff. WTF? I need a drink. So the stuff I need has to be 80 proof or higher.”

45-55 Years: “We can’t afford any stuff. We are paying off a legacy of debt and sending three kids to college. Also, we are having a lot of tag sales to sell our stuff.”

55-65 Years: “This house is really big and there isn’t as much stuff in it anymore because we threw it in a dumpster or sold it at a tag sale. Time to move to a smaller place where we intend to only bring the special stuff with us.”

65-75 Years: “Now that we’ve retired and live in a smaller house, we don’t need any more stuff. We will gladly buy stuff for our children and grandchildren but we have everything we need. Also, we’re on a Social Security budget. So there’s that.”

75+ Years: “The stuff we want can’t be shipped via Amazon. The stuff that is most important is the memories we made, the traditions we established and the people that we share our time with. We are so glad that there are people in our lives that make sure we get all of the stuff we need. Food to eat, clean clothes to wear, a warm place to sleep at night and people to love us. Because we can’t do that ourselves.”

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