Salisbury.Fake Life

What It Means To Be Human

I have moved to break the betrayal of my own silences and to speak from the burnings of my own heart

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

As a citizen of the US, I’ve usually had today off, the day honoring the life and message of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I was a kid, it usually just meant I had an extra day on weekends to play outside in the snow. As a college student, a day off from classes to do more classwork, and as an adult, depending on the job, an extra day to the weekend. The significance of the day was always at the back of my mind, but it was never at the forefront.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to post about this topic, the topic of humanity and being decent in terms of racial issues, but that came from an apathy I’ve had most of my life. What can I do as a single white person in a mostly red state where microaggressions of racism happen daily and I’ve sometimes inadvertently participated in? Last year, in some of the strongest moments of the Black Lives Matter movement, I sat back and let everyone else speak. I fully believe in the movement, and I fully believe in the anger of black people tired of being treated the way they do. It is a righteous fury, and I am here to support and lift in any way I can. I don’t have much to offer, but I do have my voice.

We are called to speak for the weak, for the voiceless, for the victims of our nation and for those it calls “enemy,” for no document from human hands can make these humans any less our brothers.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I know that I’m using his quotes today in this post, and that a lot of white people will post his words today in a show of solidarity with his message and his legacy, but what are we doing after we post these quotes? You can use your words all you want, but if your actions don’t follow through with those words, they become less.

The words I’m posting come from his speech about the Vietnam War, a turbulent time for our country, one of the first times people exercised their right to free speech with such a ferocity against the government. He spoke with passion about how it was a contradiction that he was protesting for peace for his own movement when the entire country was at war, and how he had to somehow convince the people who followed his example not to use violence to spread the message. He had an enormous task on his shoulders. His words then are just as important now. Especially after last year’s growth in activism and the attack on the capitol earlier this month.

We are not at peace. We have not been at peace for a very long time. I believe it was exacerbated by the last four years of government in my country, but it didn’t start with the leaving presidency. It was there, waiting to be ignited. We cannot ignore the inciting and inflammatory words of someone who is elected to lead us because he had financial policies or other policies that may have worked. Policy is nothing without humanity behind it. The acts of people against their own capitol building because of a disapproval of the loss of a favored candidate feels childish. It feels immature and lacks the strength of a purpose. I could understand the protests last year. I could understand that because people were and are still dying because of their skin color. I can’t understand this.

I think of them, too, because it is clear to me that there will be no meaningful solution there until some attempt is made to know them and hear their broken cries.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Have we truly heard? Have we learned enough? Will there ever be a time when it is enough?

Here is the true meaning and value of compassion and nonviolence, when it helps us to see the enemy’s point of view, to hear his questions, to know his assessment of ourselves. For from his view we may indeed see the basic weaknesses of our own condition, and if we are mature, we may learn and grow and profit from the wisdom of the brothers who are called the opposition.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Those who perpetuated the events at the capitol, those who consistently promote messages of hate for whatever reason they do, it’s difficult not to call them enemies. I don’t know that they are enemies, or if they’re simply going along with whatever is trending in their area. The mob effect is pretty powerful, even if it’s a mob of stupidity. Sometimes especially then. I’m not saying their beliefs are stupid, by the way, but their methods of going about expressing their beliefs lacks a certain level of intelligence.

I don’t know what the answers are because I honestly don’t know enough. But that’s changing this year. This year, I will be more informed, and be more conscious of my own shortcomings in the knowledge of how others live. I will do what I can, and so must we all, because the only way we’ll ever make it out of any bad situation–whether it’s pandemic or otherwise–is by pulling together and seeing each other for the people we are. We must hear each other, actively hear each other.

It’ll be difficult. Tackling institutions of ways of life, going against “it’s how we’ve always done it,” is always going to feel impossible. But it is possible. It is probably going to take more time than we’d like to think it will, but it is possible to change. It is possible to regain what we’ve lost of our humanity, and I believe we will do so incandescently.

Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long and bitter, but beautiful, struggle for a new world.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Salisbury.Fake Life, Weekly Update

End-of-the-Year Party

Well, I guess this is going to be one of “those” blog posts. You know the ones. Where the writer waxes poetic about the year gone by, and talks about hopes for the next year. It is going to be one of those, yes, but I’ll try not to bog you down with a lot of “2020 was the worst” stuff. Because even though the pandemic is still ongoing (wear your damn masks and stay home unless you absolutely have to be out), and so many people have had tragedy after tragedy this year, I think this is one of the first years I’ve grown the most into the person I’d like to be.

I had a goal this year of finishing three books I’ve been writing for a little over ten years. I separated out the year into four-month quarters, allowing myself time to get done with each one and have it beta read while I worked on the next one. I didn’t accomplish that goal, but I don’t hate that I didn’t. The person I started out as at the beginning of this year is not who I am now. And that shows in the quality of my writing. I stopped using first person perspective, switched to mostly third limited, and the story just fell out of me.

As I consumed media, I paid attention to the stories being told. Most notably, I watched/listened to a playthrough of Death Stranding, a video game produced by Kojima. I was not prepared for how deeply that story would end up impacting me. But then I decided to look at what made the biggest impression on me, and it was the emotional growth the main character goes through by the time we get to the end. It twists and turns itself around its own story, told in memories mostly, told with tragedy and loss. But at the end, hope remains. I’ve made it sound so cliche, but the relief I felt at the end of the game was profound.

I want to tell a story like that. I want to infuse emotion into my writing so that by the time we reach the end of the story, the audience is relieved and filled with feelings they then get to internalize and see themselves through. I know that’s a lot to task myself with, but I feel fairly confident I can do it. Emotive writing is important, especially in this day and age where emotions are often suppressed for being too intense.

Along with my writing growing, I feel like this year I’ve changed so much about my mindset about myself. I know I’ve talked about my mental health issues, and I will continue to do so because it is an ongoing, lifelong process. The small moments of joy, the reminders it’s okay to be here, the tethers we create to make sure we don’t leave behind what we will miss. Holding on with a white knuckle grip because there has to be something worth it at the end of this, I believe in it. I believe in it with a fierceness I’ve never believed with before.

The power behind that hope, the force of that desire to make it mean something, I wish I could give it to those who struggle. I still have my shitty days. I have them more than I talk about because that’s not what I want to focus on. They’re becoming less frequent, which is fantastic, but I want to hold on to the memory of them so I know how to fight them.

This year was hell for a lot of people. It was horrible and garbage and there’s no amount of gargling that will get the taste of it from the back of our throats, but you are still here. You are still here and you are incredible. You are stunning. I believe in you with the same fierceness I believe there will be good somewhere along the way, and we can pick it up to sling it on our backs to carry us through whatever the world tosses our way. Because we are strong enough to do so. We are capable of battling and making it through, even if that’s all we do is make it through.

I hope this year taught you more about yourself. I hope this year gave you the confidence to accept who you are, and if not, I hope it gave you the boost you needed to make the changes you’ve been wanting to make for yourself.

Next year, there will be book reviews, writing about writing, life talks, recipes. It’s going to be a better year because we will know how to approach it properly with cautious optimism. It’s not over yet, but it will be and we will march forward with a brightness of hope, a determination to conquer anything and everything.

Thank you for going on this ride with me. Thank you for your readership, and for you. I’ll see you next year.

Salisbury.Fake will be updated again after December 31st, 2020.

Happy holidays!.

All my love, Carla

Salisbury.Fake Life

You Don’t Have To Be Alone To Be Lonely

This one’s going to be a ramble, probably. I know, so surprising.

We’re going to talk about loneliness. Sort of. We’re going to talk about how it’s okay to take time to get to know ourselves and forget about being with other people because we deserve to like who we are.

I seriously hate how self-help-y that sounds. But hear me out. I spent the last two decades learning how to hate myself. Acted on it in various ways I won’t talk about in this post (I’ve discussed it before elsewhere), but it all boiled down to the thought that I’m just average/mediocre/run of the mill not worth anyone’s time. Kept me going for a long time. Or so I thought. What it really did was give me a chronic back ache because I hold my tension in my shoulders and my lower back. Makes aerobics fun.

But what’s the point of this? Let’s focus, Carla. I’ve seen some posts recently from some of my favorite content creators who talked about how they were using this quarantine time to get to know themselves a little better, and I suppose I have, too, and I need to tell you it is

u n c o m f y

Seeing how I’ve spoken to myself for the last half of my life really kind of broke my heart. Surprised me. Kind of like looking in the mirror and noticing you had peanut butter on your face all day. “I really let myself do that?”

But it hasn’t been peanut butter. It’s been self-dragging, self-loathing on a level that is kind of destructive, and just ignoring all the people telling me I’m not trash. “Thank you, but I am. It’s fine. I’ve always been this way.”

I haven’t.

We can try and pinpoint where it all started to go in a direction we didn’t think it should, but that is like trying to pick a watermelon seed out of a pile of watermelon seeds. I’d say a needle in a needlestack, but that’s not accurate enough. You can eventually find the needle you want if you search hard enough for the specific characteristics (size of the eye, length, sharp or not, blah blah blah), but watermelon seeds all look like watermelon seeds. They slip away every time you try to take one off the plate, and then you’re left with chasing it around.

The point of all of this rambling is it’s time we started being okay with being alone. I’m not talking about introverted alone, where one recharges after having social time with people. That’s a different kind of being alone. I’m talking about getting to know ourselves and seeing we’re not actually gum on the bottom of a shoe in summer. We are the kid who has the pool so all the parties are at our house. We have what everyone wants. We are admirable. We are strong, capable, and worthy of taking the time to learn how to believe that.

I say all of this knowing I’m going to ignore it like I always have, but the difference is I’ll know I’m ignoring it. Before, I would be all self-help-y and it would be for others. This one is for me. This time I know I’m ignoring good advice from myself, so it’s easier to hold myself accountable. And that is the key. Holding ourselves accountable for the goals we want to achieve and learning the difference between discouragement and destruction. Change is excruciating. It really is. I fucking hate change. I don’t really like swearing on these things, but this requires one. It’s that awful for me. So telling myself to stop calling myself garbage is like when your teacher tells the class, “no notes on this quiz, folks,” and turns around to do work on the computer so everyone uses notes anyway.

What a crock, huh? It feels like that, here at the bottom of this. But it isn’t a crock. It’s a truth I’ve been trying to learn, that I am worth my own time, and I want the people I care about to know it for themselves, too. I don’t know that many will read this, but I hope it helps someone. Maybe someone looking for a sign to start working on themselves.

Be safe as you can be in these weird, awful times. And remember: you are worth your own time. I promise.

Salisbury.Fake Life, writing

Romance Novels are Dangerous

Bear with me. I’m not about to go trashing a genre that makes billions of dollars. Very clearly it’s a market people want and are all about. But I do want to discuss it a bit.

Let’s take a moment and think about what romance novels are at their core. They’re meant to be distractions. Fantasies about what we want, or think we want. There’s lust. Not a lot of actual romance before we get to the end, and somehow the main characters are in love and ready for their future together. It’s one of those things where we expect to be entertained without going too far into why we’re entertained. It’s time to break into that a bit.

My biggest issue is that the genre presents lust as love, without considering the impact of leaving out the love that gets left behind. Potentially. We don’t really get to see much of that past a happy ending. It’s all wrapped up. Nice little package. But love isn’t always happy. And I’m not talking about the overly drawn out dramatic confrontation that comes right before one of the protagonists realizes that the other is all they’ve ever needed in love. I’m talking about the fact that eventually the quirks that draw you into a partner sometimes might become annoying and not so cute anymore. The nights when trying to be a household feels like an impossibility because you’ve got your own habits, and they have theirs.

Romance novels all have the same basic plot, too, in what I’ve seen from the ten I read in preparation for this post. Boy and girl meet, have a spark, they can’t stop thinking about each other, there’s something holding one of them back from fully accepting feelings, they have wild sex multiple times, one thinks they’re not good enough somehow for the other, big dramatic event happens, the one who tried to leave realizes just how much they love the other, rush to find them/save them/tell them, they get married, and the woman is usually pregnant by the end of the story.

This isn’t a bad plot. But after reading so many in a row, it got tedious. The man is usually incredibly wealthy, completely ripped and fit, handsome as hell, and a loner of some sort. Bad boys are even better. The women are curvy in the right places, but still manage to have a trim waist. Long hair with perfect waves. Career or family driven, never both (there was one rare exception I read), weeps beautifully. The standard impossible people. Some of the main character traits for the men were a bit disturbing. The women consumed their every thought and lives until it was all they could do not to see them. I know the feeling of being in love for the first time with someone and it’s rather difficult to tear one’s mind away from a new love, but the level of . . . intensity and dedication was borderline obsessive. They were overly protective, actively committing violence against a perceived threat to the woman they claimed to love. Jealous. Almost abusive.

The women are typically submissive, even when they’re described as being take charge and full of vivacity. They’re still dominated by the men in the stories, which tells me there’s not much originality in the thought that goes into these things. They’re also consumed by the thought of the man, usually after they’ve had wild sex that stays on their mind for a few days until they can do it again. They snap at the characters around them until one of their friends says something like, “you haven’t been yourself lately, what’s up with that??” and there’s a realization that the woman is in love. But she can’t be in love! They only just met! How could she possibly have feelings for someone she just met? /sarcasm

The level of superficiality in most of these relationships is incredibly off putting to me. There’s not much substance to back up the supposed feelings of the characters. The chemistry they’re meant to have just doesn’t exist. Typical story: they’ve known each other for years, haven’t ever done anything about it, friends pit them together and suddenly they realize they’ve been lacking for seventy years.

What I want from romance novels is reality. I know that doesn’t sell, and maybe I’m an outlier here, but what good are these novels if they perpetuate problems? Women are the main target audience for these (I unfortunately don’t have enough experience reading any LGBTQ+ romance to have an opinion on this, especially when there are others who are much more capable of discussing that topic), and while I appreciate the attempt to have books designed specifically with women in mind, it makes me question what the actual gain is here, and what authors believe women really want.

Sure, the sex scenes are hot. But is that really all the novels are for? I feel like I might be missing the point of these novels. You might be wondering why I’m so interested in this, and the reason is because I’m in the process of writing my own. I read quite a few last weekend all in the name of research, and it discouraged me from wanting to proceed because of how vapid the whole thing is. And maybe that’s the point! That they’re strictly for entertainment purposes, which is fantastic. They are pretty entertaining. But as a reader, I want something more than just a kinky moment in someone’s bedroom. It feels disingenuous and like I’m looking in on something I shouldn’t be. I’m well aware there are plenty of softer romances out there–I read those when I was younger, hoping for inspiration that way–but it still leaves much to be desired in my opinion (no pun intended?).

I think I’ll leave this here for tonight. I do have more to talk about when it comes to characterization problems I have, but that’s a different post entirely, I think, because it’s less related to romance novels. If you made it this far in my ramble/rant, thank you. I would love to have an actual discussion about this kind of thing with writers to see if I’m not quite catching the purpose of this genre. It would be an interesting conversation.

Salisbury.Fake Life, Weekly Update

32

Today I turn 32. It’s such an odd feeling. I’ve not been a fan of my birthday for a very long time, but I’m trying to change that. Every year I visit a state park where I live and spend some time in nature to remind myself the world is bigger than what keeps me up at night. My favorite time of year is fall. I love the colors of the earth, the rain (although it’s not particularly pleasant to hike in), the cool mornings and evenings, the holidays. I love getting to spend time with my family especially around my birthday. They keep me grounded and remind me it’s okay to be here. It’s more than okay.

I’m not sure what all I want to say today. I get to see my niece, which is something I’ve been looking forward to for a while. I get to spend time with my brother, and when she’s done working, my sister-in-law. Their house is one of my favorite places to be. It re-centers me and recharges my social battery, even if we just sit around and watch Goose entertain herself.

I think sometimes we put too much pressure on ourselves to be more than what we are, and while that sounds a bit . . . harsh? It’s enough to be who you are for the people who matter to you. I don’t know. I feel like I’m being rather vague and somewhat “self-help” book today, but it’s more just trying to figure out where I fit into it all. I really don’t need much to be content, and I think that’s something I’m going to keep striving for, contentment. Happiness is impossible to maintain, but keeping up with contentedness is far more achievable. I’m going to go make some tea, maybe hot chocolate, I don’t know, and then I’m going to get ready to go see the babiest baby who ever babied.

Be kind to yourself. You are worth it.

Salisbury.Fake Life, Weekly Update

Car Calories Don’t Count

That’s the biggest lie I tell myself. Not the cliche “I’m fine” or whatever. I tell myself that all food consumed within the confines of the car doesn’t count toward a daily calorie limit. It’s a lie. Those calories do count. But I still stuff a cheese roll up in my mouth on the way home from Taco Bell all the same believing it won’t exist in my body the moment I leave the car.

Hi, my name is Carla, and welcome to my TED Talk.

Just kidding. This blog entry is gonna be somewhat unclear in terms of how we get to the point, but we’ll get there.

When I was a kid, I never understood the concept of aging, I think. I knew I got older, had that quintessential fight with my parents about how I was 16 and not a child anymore (yes, Ariel, you are, sit down and comb your hair with a fork), turned 21 and saw Riverdance with my mom, got blackout drunk when I was 25, loved, lost, all that happy nonsense we expect along the way as we grow up.

But tonight as I was changing out of my work clothes and into my “I’m a writer” chunky sweater and baggy sweatpants, I had the thought of how it’s so nice to find a pair of socks there when I reach for it in my drawer. This might not be revolutionary to you, but for me it was a small epiphany bomb going off in my head. Because if there’s anything I know about myself it’s how I am when I’m depressed. I’ve mentioned that my depression manifests itself with dirty dishes and unfolded laundry. Well, I’ve got the dishes taken care of, now I’m working on the laundry part, and I think–honestly and truly–I’ve cracked it. I like knowing there’s a pair of socks waiting in the drawer for me to put on after work. It sounds so damn stupid when I say it out loud, but the part of me that’s been trying to be proud of myself is throwing her hands into the air saying, “THIS IS WHAT WE’VE BEEN WORKING FOR FOR SO LONG, CALL YOUR THERAPIST AND TELL HER YOU GET IT!”

The happiness we seek is elusive because we want sustained happiness. Why not try for sustained contentment instead? Far more easily achieved.

And just so we’re clear, car calories do actually matter, and I really need to work on my relationship with food. But that’s for another day.

Salisbury.Fake Life

Friday Morning Ramble

We wrap ourselves up in what ifs and could have beens, but do we ever stop and just appreciate what we did get into? I recently got my piano back and I had the thought I wish I’d gone into music in school because I love playing the piano so much. But if I’d gone into music, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. Really. I met some of my best friends in the writing department at university, and I had some pretty amazing professors who changed my life–I wasn’t a very open minded person–and I wouldn’t have written thousands of pages for over ten years.

I did some basic math the other day at work while things were slow. I write three pages–or I try to–every day on my lunch break and I wanted to see how much that would be if I wrote three pages a day for a year. The number is just over a thousand. I could write a thousand pages in a year, which honestly isn’t a lot if you consider the people who write fourteen pages in a day for a year.

But it’s enough, right? What is the limit for being enough? We could quote Mean Girls here and say the limit does not exist, but do we really believe that? Are we capable of understanding how much of enough we are? This is something I struggle with personally and I know so many people who do, too. But when we look at ourselves, really truly look deeply at ourselves, are we sure we believe in the concept of enough?

Unless you’re a genuinely horrible person, you are quite capable of being enough. Even if it’s just for yourself. I can’t wrap my head around that concept. Being enough for myself. I’m working with my therapist on that, but it actually hurts me to see how I’ve been talking to myself for most of my life. We all joke about how we’re dumpster fires rolling down an alley, but to believe it? To believe I’m the scum on the bottom of the dumpster? There’s no way to pinpoint the moment I started believing that about myself, but there is a way to start unraveling that belief.

When I get like this, I find things to ground myself. To re-center my gps, so to speak. And I go back to the concert where I met my favorite singer/songwriter (Noah Gundersen, if you’re interested). I remember my brother asking me to be there when his daughter was born. I remember holding Goose for the first time and weeping immediately because she was so small, and she still is, but she is mighty. I think of the way that small child expands my heart to bursting and it’s all because she calls me Ca with all the enthusiasm of an almost 2 year old. I think of the loves I’ve had, the loss that comes with love sometimes, the books I read, the books I’m writing, my piano, my sister’s laugh and her drive to be there for everyone, my dad’s love of his garden and his smile, my stepmom’s quiet grace and speedy wit, my mother’s strength to be herself– all of it. All of it reminds me that I am not empty. I am not the scum on the dumpster. I am doing impossible things, and I will continue to do impossible things because I am enough.

Salisbury.Fake Life, Uncategorized

Let’s Talk

I had every intention of making this post about why I haven’t been blogging, but I mean come on.  There’s a pandemic and it’s thrown everyone into a tailspin and we’re all just doing our best.  I don’t know if I can say I’m doing my best, but I’m certainly trying to.

So, what are we going to talk about?  I don’t really know.  I wanted to be all poetic and beautifully worded, but I’m tired.  I’m very tired.  Maybe more tired than I’ve been before, and I know it’s deeper than because the world has felt like it’s been ending.  My depression manifests itself with unwashed dishes and unfolded laundry.  I finally got my kitchen cleaned and organized this weekend and it felt impossible the entire time.

It’s not a lack of motivation.  It’s more an attempt to pull an elephant out of a watermelon and you only have dental floss.  We hear so many times of people losing their battles with depression and anxiety and all kind of other mental illness, but what about the people fighting?  Daily striving to feel something other than a crushing weight of indescribable heft just hanging from our teeth.  Our chests are tight from holding in ourselves.  We can’t be too emotional, we can’t show we feel, so we hold it in, and we hold it tight because no one wants to know we’re struggling.

A lot of people are saying it’s okay not to be okay, and that’s true, but the caveat is you do something about it once you realize you’re not.  Self care isn’t always soft and gentle like those romanticized posts making the rounds on Instagram and Tumblr make it out to be.  Yeah, it can be those small moments, but real self care, the deeper self care is ugly.  It’s having moments where you tell yourself that enough is enough and you wash your dishes. You take a shower.  You brush your teeth.  The smallest things have the biggest significance.  You fight back for yourself.  You fight hard to beat back the voice that tells you you’re a failure.  Because you’re not.  You’re doing your best and that’s enough.  You are enough.

We are stronger than what our demons call us.  We can make it through this and more. I shouldn’t be here, but I am because there is some part of me that is determined to prove myself wrong.  I don’t ever tell people it gets better, because it hasn’t so far for me, but it gets easier to hoist on my shoulders and carry it.

You are worth it.  You are valued and you are loved most fiercely.  Hold on to those words until they fit into the bits of you that are broken because you are beautiful and the world needs you.