"Oh My God, I Can't Feel My Kneecaps," or, Surviving the Return Trip

I was lucky, in a way. Moving home in July allowed me some time to readjust to life in the North. And by "life in the North," I mostly mean the weather situation. I really did tell my BFF Kate that I couldn't feel my kneecaps one night when we were walking the two blocks from her apartment to a coffeehouse. Ten years of balmy Carolina weather didn't do me any favors. Seriously; I never even got a tan, and my blood thinned right the hell out. But there were other things, too. Cultural things.

Toward the end of my time in NC, I said to several people that the only thing I knew for sure was a decade in the South hadn't broken me of being a Northerner. Yet reentry wasn't easy. For starters, I no longer knew my hometown. The mall had changed. You could turn right on red at intersections where such a move was previously illegal. We didn't have a lady governor anymore. Only about three people I'd known in my previous life still lived in the area, and I'm lucky they're people I like. 

Being surrounded by Southerners for so long also gave me some weird verbal tics. I still say "y'all" on the reg, and my co-workers once stared at me for a full five seconds after I said to a customer, "Your change is two dollars and forty-five cent" (instead of "cents"). When people in the North say, "Bless your heart," I flinch, because I know it means the opposite in the South, and that's something you don't forget.

Having made a goodly number of trips home to MI from NC during my time away, I was at a bit of an advantage over anyone who may have just moved to the area with no prior experience. And having my parents down the hall was helpful when I had questions about which roads I was meant to take or where certain stores were located (or not, as the case sometimes is). 

Still, it's been a bit baffling to me, all of this snow and stuff. I'm honestly a little angry that most of my shoes now have salt stains on them--a consequence of cold-weather living about which I had forgotten. And nothing can replace making a run to Cook-Out, the mother of all fast-food restaurants, when I want a chicken sandwich. (I miss Cook-Out almost as much as I miss my blue bedroom, and that's saying something.) Time and space function differently in the suburbs than they do in the sticks. For example, there are days when I decide not to go somewhere because it's "too far away," even though it's only twenty miles down the road and I used to hop in the car to get dinner an hour and a half away in Fayetteville without a thought. Also, I never knew how good I had it when I was connected to our super-fast campus Internet; blogging, or even just cruising through Facebook, is now a far more fraught experience than it should be, given the spotty service in our house.

Leaving the house from time to time is a helpful way of coping. Most of our roads here go either straight east and west or straight north and south, so it's difficult to get truly lost. Eating local food unlocks a part of your brain that you maybe didn't realize was collecting dust. Tuning in to watch the nearby sports franchises brings a sense of belonging to your life, because millions of people are cheering along with you. 

Above all, taking a moment here and there to look around and realize that you're among your tribe again can make the difference between feeling lost and feeling found. 

-Cate-

Adventures in Rejection: Cate Hates Her Eyebrows

I am obsessed with my eyebrows.

If this is an exaggeration, it’s only a small one. I’m forever checking to see if I’ve grown a unibrow overnight; those little hairs above the bridge of my nose are such a pain to pull out, and they sprout as if from nowhere at any time they feel ready--which could be the middle of the night or the middle of the day. They’re hair; they have no sense of the spinning of the Earth or the passage of minutes and hours.

To draw an unlikely parallel, this is sometimes how it feels to wait for responses to submissions. I get the same sense of discomfort when no word whatsoever arrives from editors, and then suddenly I am ambushed by a rejection letter while I’m checking my e-mail during my lunch break. Hearing “no” for the thousandth time is like finding a dark, coarse hair smack in between your brows when you freshen your makeup mid-afternoon: it’s embarrassing, discouraging, and frustrating.

Yet we must remain vigilant about sending our work in for consideration. Even if you don’t care that your eyebrows meet in the middle, creating a swarthy bridge above your eyes, you’re going to care if your words never see the light of day. Because we’re writers, and half the point is to share our art with others, whether they have beautiful eyebrows or not.

-Cate-

This Is Why We Need Feminism

At my former job, I had to face both sexism and gender discrimination at various points in my career. It was a difficult way to live and work, and at the very end of my time there, the worst of it happened. Without going into detail, I will say that there was much discussion about a co-worker's alleged, shall we say, exploits, and my name was brought into the conversation.

I was furious because it is no one's God-damned business what I do--or do not do--with my vagina. I am an adult and I refuse to apologize for operating while female. The whole incident pushed me over the edge, to the point where I was sobbing in my parents' living room (because I was lucky enough to catch wind of this while I was still on vacation rather than in my office). This is it, I thought. This is what it is to be a woman.

Having lived with and mentored college-age women for five and a half years, being an aunt/Godmother to a little girl, and coming from a family full of strong ladies, I am honestly outraged that we are still operating this way in 2015. And this is not just a first-world problem; conditions are much worse for women in some other regions, notably Africa and the Middle East. In China, sex-selective abortions are still performed on the regular. Women in India have worked to rise up against rapists who are not prosecuted.

In the United States, we are dealing with those who would curb our reproductive rights, the continued existence of the glass ceiling, and a literary culture that strongly favors men, among many other large and small indignities. I'd sum it up thusly: this is bullshit.

As a former Girl Scout, as the kind of person who does what she wants, as someone who eludes categorization, and as a female (both by birth and identification), I have to say that I am sick and tired of having my life prescribed for me and suffering consequences--however intangible or small they may seem--because I happen to have two X chromosomes. Unfortunately, I have no plan of action in mind; because I'm desperately trying to find a job and keep up with my writing submissions, I am unable to start, or even join, a group that advocates for women.

What I AM able to do is support my fellow women (including the trans* ones, for whom life is even more difficult). Need a sympathetic ear? Feel free to contact me. Want to rail against the patriarchy for awhile? I'd be happy to nod in agreement. Desire a chat about professional issues with a fellow female professional? I'm your girl.

Stay strong, ladies. I know we've faced thousands of years of oppression, but if we haven't lost the battle yet, I have a feeling we never will.

-Cate-

Rural Is the Worst Word I Know

As faithful readers will recall, I've just come home to Michigan after ten years spent in a small town in North Carolina, and I have very little to show for my time there save for a few linguistic tics. 

When I was teaching English as a Second Language to 14 Spanish-speaking students, I found myself sounding more and more Midwestern as the semester progressed. After the fact, I realized that I was pushing back against their Barthelonas, Balenthias, and joos with my dropped Ts, hard As, and nasal vocalizations. But after the Spaniards and South Americans vacated my classroom, I slid back into the speech patterns that had been building in my mouth since the moment I arrived in North Carolina in 2004 as a college freshman.

I picked up the strangest things there: "y'all" ("all y'all" in moments of frustration), "bless your heart" (which means the opposite), and "I ain't got but ten cent" (a vicious combinations of pieces of the local vernacular). When I thought about it, I realized the word accent sounded Southern in my head: ayk-sent instead of ack-sent. 

At that point, I began to worry. What if I was losing my Detroit self, giving over my well-worn Michigan tongue to small-town colloquialisms and pronunciations?

The ultimate test for me turned out to be one I hadn't considered until I was firmly ensconced back in my parents' house. If I could pronounce the word rural, which has always--and I mean always--given me trouble without thinking too much into it, I was doomed. If I couldn't, I was safe and would recover from my own personal Great English Vowel Shift.

I tried it out in my bedroom late on a Saturday night, when I should have been asleep but was up writing instead. Much to my relief, rural came out clearly only once, and only because I concentrated very hard on the word.

This no doubt sounds silly to you, my dear readers, and I'm willing to admit that my inability to pronounce a relatively common word is strange at best, lazy at worst. But I've noticed that my mouth can't move around it the way a Southerner's tongue can--spilling the word out smoothly, like barbecue sauce over pork. So my Midwestern (verbal) self is still safe, which is important to me in a weird way. I don't ever want to lose this part of myself, because it feels like home, and home is the one thing that keeps me grounded.

-Cate-

On Ink and Emotional Trauma

The day after I got my third tattoo, I realized something. This was a complicated epiphany, since it linked back to an issue I'd been having recently. A girl I knew was cutting herself on the regular, and a mutual friend of ours asked me if I could explain the impulse to self-mutilate to him. I told him that although I had never--and would never--cut, I understood that she felt the need to release her emotional trauma through physical pain. As I suffered from the aftershocks of my latest expedition to the parlor, gently cleaning my wrist and trying not to accidentally scrape at the raw skin there, it hit me: I was a cutter.

This isn't the literal truth, of course. But I've been marking time--and emotional pain--with my tattoos. Each of the three coincides with a traumatic event (or series of events) in my life. 

***

2006 

 
I am 20. I have just gotten my first tattoo, done my by cousin Scott Morrison at N2Skin in Farmington Hills, Michigan. (Scott is now at Avatar in Clarkston, Michigan.)

It is on my right foot and says, "Feet fail me not." One of two things usually happens when people see it: 1) they say, "Oh, that's so sweet!" as if the sentiment isn't deadly serious, which it is to me (more on that in a minute) or 2) they say, "Where do I know that from? It sounds so familiar." (Answer: here.)

One time, a guy at the Wal-Mart auto center sees my tattoo while I wait for an oil change. He looks from my foot to my face, then back to my foot, then asks, "Why would you do a thing like that?" I want to punch this dude. But because I don't feel like getting arrested, I simply say, "It felt right."

And it did. This phrase was chosen for dual purposes. First, it is a reminder to myself: when life trips me up, I have to keep moving. Second, it is a not-so-obvious homage to my hometown, since I can't quite bring myself to get the standard "D" tattoo opted for by so many of my compatriots from southeastern Michigan.

The first purpose is the most important. My significant other has broken up with me on our anniversary. I am crushed, spending my days moping abut the house when I'm not working part-time as an intern at a masonry magazine (bricks and shit, not old men who allegedly hide treasure). Right now, more than anything, I need something real, tangible, telling me that I will survive the experience. And that's how I end up putting needle to flesh the first time.

***

2012

I am 26. I have just gotten my second tattoo, done by Joe Almquist at Blue Flame in Raleigh, North Carolina. 

In the past four months, I have managed to finish grad school while simultaneously suffering through a mental breakdown. Nothing has been easy for me recently. While I would like to have Scott tattoo me again--he's family, after all--the urge to do something is too strong, and on a weekend trip to visit my friend at her parents' house in the Triangle, I turn to her and say, "Wanna go get a tattoo?"

She won't let anyone touch her with a needle, but that's okay. I don't need her to alter the canvas of her skin, I just need her to go with me. Before we leave, I make sure I have a picture of the four-leaf clover necklace I bought myself as a graduation gift, because this is what I want: a bit of good luck.

Since I started my graduate studies, I've lost two of my three dogs (the first was put down shortly before I matriculated) and my nephew, endured some very bad and scary times at work, seen my mental health deteriorate, watched my aunt battle ovarian cancer, and had so many crises of confidence it's verging on absurd.

When I walk into Blue Flame, I know the experience is going to be incredible. There's a jackalope skull on the wall, and I couldn't ask for a better sign than that, since I want so much to believe in the jackalope. Joe puts me yet more at ease by cracking a joke: “This is my first day on the job, and I totally fucked up on the guy who came in before you.” His professional humor is what I need, and I laugh heartily for the first time in days.

***

2014 

I am almost 28. I have just gotten my third tattoo, done by Alice Underdahl at Valhalla in Southern Pines, North Carolina.

Because it would be too much to ask that I have a normal, quiet, stable life, the tempest continues to rage. My job security is never certain, I'm struggling to get my work published, I've been through a string of sort-of relationships that have torn me up, my grandmother is constantly ill, my aunt has succumbed to the scourge of cancer, my mother is stretched so thin it's difficult to watch, and my depression and anxiety are worsening.

Since the death of my nephew in 2010, a niece and another nephew have arrived. My brother and his wife say they're through having kids. Because I don't want children of my own, these three are my surrogates and the only unconditional thing I have. Everything I do, I do because I'm trying to impress them, and that includes making attempts at getting my life in order. So I've chosen my third--and possibly last--tattoo: their first initials, on my left wrist where their presence will be duly noted from the start of each day to the end of it.

Alice is the nicest artist you could hope to have. She is cheerful and funny, and she lets me ramble about my other two pieces while the needle whirs. When I explain the significance of these three letters, she actually thanks me for letting her be part of the process. It's all I can do not to cry in the shop.

When I leave, I feel calmer, better, stronger. 

***

Some people choose their tattoos because the art is interesting or intriguing. My choices always arise after much deliberation and personal strife. Maybe this is because I'm a writer: I have a compulsion to chronicle things, fictional or otherwise. Or maybe it's because I want to remember that I'm still standing in spite of whatever it is that's trying to knock me down, whether it's my own brain or life in general. Either way, I have scarred myself, but I have no regrets.

However, not everyone finds this to be the best strategy for dealing with their pain. If you or someone you know is suffering from self-mutilation (whether it's cutting, wrist-banging, or something else), please seek help. There are less dangerous and harmful coping solutions available to all of us, and I recommend you check out what the Mayo Clinic has to say about the practice of self-injury if you need a good resource. You can even talk to me if you want: I'm always available via e-mail at cateismilesaway@gmail.com

Stay strong.

-Cate-

Selfie-Obsessed

I have to be honest with you: I'm not sure why so many people are such vocal opponents of the selfie. Self-portraits have been A Thing in art since, oh, forever. And it may be true that my self:other ratio lists too far to the self side, but there is a good reason for it. The fact is, I'm always available as a subject.

 Hey there, hi there, ho there.

Those of you who know me recognize that I'm a hardcore introvert, and I spend so much time alone--even at work--that it's natural for me to look inward for inspiration. This is why I take pictures of myself, write poems about my life, insert aspects of my personality into fictional characters. Think of it as a literal interpretation of the long-dispensed Creative Writing 101 maxim: write what you know.

And don't mistake it for narcissism. In America, we tend to place our emphasis on the individual, which means that, to an extent, we've taught ourselves to regard ourselves highly. But I don't think that's the same as being so self-centered that we are unable to look around and recognize that others exist. For me, it's a sort of self-actualization tool: the more I examine me, the more I am able to adapt and become a better person for the sake of society.

Yes, being a better person means showing the world my feet.

Perhaps this makes me unusual and everyone else is actually as self-obsessed as the critics say. But I'd like to think that we're all in the same--albeit large--boat, trying to understand and express ourselves via ourselves. And that's not such a bad thing to do, is it?

-Cate-

Why So Serious?

Up to this point in my life, I've been pretty lucky when it comes to discussing my anxiety and depression. Only twice have people asked me, "What do you have to be depressed about?" Since that second time was just a few days ago, I thought I'd address the topic here.

My standard response (if you can call something that's been used twice "standard") is, "That's not how it works." The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimate that one in ten American adults suffer from depression across a spectrum of socioeconomic factors. The National Institute of Mental Health reports that "Women are 70% more likely than men to experience depression during their lifetime." According to this article over at WebMD, there is a strong possibility that genetics plays a part in depression (i.e., if you have a depressed parent, you have a higher risk of being depressed) and that the illness is not exclusively environmental, though it can be situational--for example, when you're depressed after the loss of a loved one. Here's a handy infographic breaking down some of the statistics.

My generalized anxiety disorder is co-morbid with my mild depression, which sometimes means that one makes the other worse. That's tons of fun, as you can imagine. In spite of having lived through this stuff, it's difficult for me to describe the whole experience of being anxious and depressed. Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half does a great job of breaking down the depression part here and here. She writes in the first post, "Some people have a legitimate reason to feel depressed, but not me. I just woke up one day feeling sad and helpless for absolutely no reason." And there you have the truth, even if you don't have the science to back it up: sometimes there is not a single good fucking reason for this.

The good news is that no one has ever asked me in a malicious way why I'm depressed (or anxious). In fact, the last person who asked named off all of these good reasons why I shouldn't be. He had a point, but his point isn't as strong as genetics or brain chemicals, although I won't tell him that because I don't want to bring him down with me. However, I urge you all to think before you ask the question, because it can be insulting and, frankly, painful for those of us who have been in the great black hole.

-Cate-

The Road

It used to be that I spent a great deal of time in my car or on airplanes. On the one hand, I'm lucky that I don't have to travel as much anymore. On the other, I kind of miss it.

Yes, I get road weary. Yes, it throws off my body's natural rhythms. Yes, it a shock to be suddenly still after so many hours of being in motion. Yes, it is a pain in my ass to pack, unpack, repack, go through security lines, fill up my gas tank, and all that good stuff. But being on the road has its advantages.

I see things all over the place--in hotels, airports, rest areas--that contribute to my writing. It's not just about transcribing these experiences. It's the woman in Brussels who had the perfect hair for one of my characters, or the city lights seen from miles up in the sky inspiring poems about the place I've departed.

And there are other benefits. Traveling opens me up. There's a couple who run the laundromat in Cambridge, MA, who were so nice to me one incredibly hot summer I wanted to hug them both, which is not a thing I do. There's the rainbows that connect me to my college friend Sara, who told me they remind her of her grandmother, and now I think of them every time I see one. There's the random places I've been and stayed with friends, which experiences have allowed me to experience something new: Shelbyville, IN, where I went to a fantastic family diner; Marietta, GA, where I realized it was okay to run away sometimes; Philadelphia, PA, where I experienced my second Fourth of July in a city integral to the beginnings of American history (the first being Boston).

This is the kind of stuff that I can't let go. No matter how many times I get dehydrated from flying or how poorly I sleep at my parents' house, I want to keep moving.

-Cate-

Wakey Wakey

My family has a pretty legendary streak of insomnia, and its fair share of night owls. It is not at all unusual for my maternal grandmother to fall asleep after 4:00 AM and wake around noon. My paternal grandfather was known for his late-night forays to 24-hour donut shops or, you know, Kentucky. My father freely admits that his genes have played a large part in my own sleep troubles. While I appreciate the fact that he doesn't try to deny his culpability, I sure do wish he'd passed on some other DNA. Why not the one to make me a little bit taller? He doesn't have it. Or the one that makes me a baller? Absent, as well. (Skee-Lo feels my pain.)

So here I am, exhausted and blogging at 5:30 in the morning because I haven't gotten my forty winks yet. I'd like to keep reading the book in which I'm currently entrenched--Gone with the Wind--but it requires focus that I don't possess at the moment. If I had some energy, I'd head over to Waffle House, grab myself a chocolate chip waffle and a side of bacon, and work on a short story I started and am now required to finish. The petulant child part of my brain wants to call Dad and wake him up, but I won't do that, because he's my father (and also because he knows where I live).

Instead, I'll finish this post, crawl back into bed, and hope for the best. Sweet dreams, my slumber-challenged friends.

-Cate-

On Filtering (Or Not)

Sometimes I think I might have a problem with my tongue.

You see, it occasionally happens that I will, ahem, fly off the handle and say whatever comes into my brain when I've been angered. As you can imagine, this is not the best conversational strategy to employ. I need a filter, and badly, or else I may find myself losing friends along the way.

However. There are times when a lack of verbal discretion comes in handy. Most of them involve first drafts.

I tend to do the opposite of letting lose when writing first drafts. Instead of allowing words to pour onto the paper, I end up censoring myself. This is a direct result of my perfectionism complex. I want my story or poem--EVEN the first draft--to be as perfect as possible. (The truth is, first drafts never are, and that's why I end up having trouble in workshops.) 

Instead of searching for a way to streamline the first draft, I want to ingrain in myself a much better habit: spewing words until I've said everything that might be useful, and THEN going back to cut things out. Editing, for me, is much easier than writing in the first place, so this approach will likely suit me well. 

After all, some of the best warm-up writing exercises I've experienced have been the ones where you write continuously for three or five minutes, not stopping your hand for anything short of flames threatening to engulf you. I suspect we all need to lose ourselves in the writing like that a little more often. Do you agree?

-Cate-

The Mystery Scar

I have a scar on my right index finger, and I'm not sure what it's from. Not the Alfredo incident--that was my thumb. The cat that bit me when I was in kindergarten didn't leave a mark that I recall.

The lingering sense that I should remember the source of this blemish haunts me. It appears to be a recent injury, sustained within the past year or two. At the time, I must have told myself I'd recollect the moment each time I looked at my hand. Now it's gone, faded into the hazy place between useless things I learned as an undergraduate and important things I didn't write down as a graduate.

Maybe I stabbed myself with a fine-tip pen by mistake. It could be a place where I scraped myself with the head of a screwdriver as I assembled my big-girl furniture (bed, desk, sofa). Knowing me, it's likely to have come from an open flame.

Little pink dot, shinier than the surrounding flesh, won't you reveal your secrets?