Being Unproductive is Underrated

“Kryptonite” by Three Doors Down was playing as a crowd pleaser in-between sets at a Maui music venue. It was 2011—too many years since Kryptonite had been popular. But that’s typical of time-lagging-feet-dragging island life. I rolled my eyes because I was an artsy snob from New York City,  but secretly I loved the song.  If I go crazy then would you still call me Superman? If I’m a blah blah blah (I don’t know what they’re saying here) would you still be there holding my hand? In my hidden, honest depths, I sang along nostalgic for high school.

In a moment of courage, I blurted, “I know this song is awful, but I kind of love it.”

An older—but more importantly, wiser— woman nearby said, “why is this a terrible song?” I stumbled. I didn’t have an answer. I guess I was parroting my brother and his spectacular and snobby taste in music? Three Doors Down—they’re not Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, The Beatles, The Stones, Roberta Flack, The Jackson 5, or something offbeat and unknown and therefore “good.” They’re pop-radio-playing-crack. The truth: They were a band—amongst many others— I refused to let myself enjoy because I deprived myself of enjoying my life in an effort to constantly “accomplish” and “learn.” In order to obsessively “better myself” I couldn’t give in to futile art like “Kryptonite,”  I  had to restrict myself from dumb and simple pleasures.

For most of my late teens and twenties, everything I did for “fun” or in my “downtime” had to have an accomplishment attached to it. In all of my time off I was essentially doing “homework” or “bettering myself” in some way, and that included the music I listened to and the movies I watched.

Before I got sick, a friend asked me to make a list of the things I did for fun and here’s what I came up with:

Hiking, rollerblading, gymnastics, skydiving, bike riding, writing, reading, trivia games

She was quiet, “Soooo…do you enjoy anything that isn’t about exercise or learning? Like how about going to the movies? Or going to Disney World”

My mind drew a blank. “No. Not really. Sure, I go to the movies but is it fun? Not really. It’s a discussion topic, it’s for my records. It’s for research into good writing and good acting.” My idea of fun was mostly caffeine induced manic hiking, and/or an adrenaline rush. Everything else I did was an exhausting effort to better myself OR escape. AKA fix myself. AKA I am not enough as I am. AKA power through my PTSD (it has been mentioned that people with PTSD are adrenaline junkies as a way to constantly distract from the painful sensations).

While I am fully aware that I got bit by a tick and that’s something I’m powerless over, that I did not “attract” Lyme disease, I also believe that my lifestyle leading up to that point and after I got sick was of no benefit to my immune system, my adrenal glands, or my mental/emotional health.

When I first got sick, I could not chill. I didn’t know how. Again, I made my downtime about learning— I picked up my camera and started taking a photo everyday and studying photography.  It was a brilliant move for sure, but why was it so hard for me to just rest, to do nothing? I still felt I wasn’t worthy just because. I had to DO more, earn my space here. Good news: Slowly, thanks to illness, I’ve learned about the art of fucking off,  how healing it is, and how I don’t need to do or learn shit to be worthy of my life or of love.

I went to Disney World a couple of times and got wheeled around in a wheelchair, I watched A LOT of cartoons, I read some popcorn novels, I colored, I fucked around on silly Pinterest, I danced to silly music in my room, I painted pottery, and sometimes I did nothing AT ALL. But a few weeks ago, I really went full throttle.

I was sick with this crazy upper respiratory infection that lasted like 35 days. It sucked. It’s not Lyme related and was nothing like my torturous Lyme symptoms but still…it sucked. Day 5 or 6, exhausted and fighting a fever and hacking up a lung, I was like, “I think I want to stay in bed and watch a bad movie.” I texted my wellness-gal-pal, Eva, and she was like “watching bad movies will heal you.” Both of us have had to learn the hard way. We are both hard-working, goal-oriented, inspired, and passionate individuals so the idea of not accomplishing and letting ourselves rest remains very much a practice.

And so I began my journey into dumb Blockbuster hits that cost too much money to make and pay actors too much and usually insist on a value system that doesn’t line up with my own and definitely teaches me nothing….but they are entertaining as fuck. And they make me smile. Isn’t that the point?

It was just supposed to be one movie.I watched “Just Married” with Ashton Kutcher and Brittany Murphy (RIP).  I had SO MUCH FUN cocooned in my bed with a nightstand full of nutrients and natural soothers— ginger tea, lemon water, sautéed veggies, fruit, zinc lozenges and essential oils— that I thought why not just keep this up, what’s another movie?  I have a weakness for Jennifer Aniston so when I saw that “Mother’s Day” was streaming, I jumped right on it. It was truly NOT GOOD, but I had a GREAT time watching it.

I took a break from movie watching to move my body a bit, do some stretches, refill my big mug of ginger tea, and do a manageable hour of writing. For me, the hour-or-so break is a key component to a day of “fucking off.” Self-care has many layers, it’s important that I give my brain a small amount of exercise and it’s super important that my body doesn’t stay in one position all day as I will end up with more pain later on. Whether I get out of bed to get some sun or I write or I do some meditation and yoga, it helps to break up the “nothingness” and leaves me feeling nourished by the night rather than cagey, sluggish, and depressed.

I put my computer away after an hour of work and started scrolling through the streaming services again. I went for “Bad Moms.” That shit was good. I always love a pretty, overworked woman who is a little sad and frustrated in her life.

I thought I had had enough. I really did. But it was getting late, and I wondered why, if I was having such a good time, I was even considering stopping there? I had nothing to do. I mean, I had a fever—why did I feel pressure to “do” something. I hadn’t enjoyed a day at home sick maybe ever, but I was deeply enjoying myself and I was enjoying my own silly company, too.  So, I dove in to “Americas Sweethearts.” Because Catherine Zeta Jones being a world-class bitch and not getting her way is fun to watch. I mean, c’mon. The irony is that after four bad movies in a row, nothing learned or earned,  I felt so accomplished. Because I had given myself a break. Because I love myself. Because I wasn’t pushing my suffering body to do shit it couldn’t do. The need to be productive is just a symptom of low self-worth. Or certainly, a lack of self-compassion. So, for me, the accomplishment I felt in allowing myself to watch dumb movies all day was greater or deeper than my 365 photo project or the acting job or the writing job or etc etc..

I’m (mostly) done trying to prove something to the world. And I’m not so sure of this trying SO HARD to better myself thing I do.  That being said, interestingly enough, I know more than I ever have. I am currently sitting on set and I handed my copy of The New Yorker to another actor who had nothing to do. I said, “the fiction is good this month. It’s depressing as all fuck but it’s good. It’s on page 64.”  And all of the actors laughed cause I’m a freak who is writing a blog post and reading The New Yorker and taking a holistic medicine certification course online all while in-between shots of this commercial. It might be a lot or too much even, but I’m doing it BECAUSE I enjoy it all. I’m not doing it for notches in my belt or discussion topics. I just really love that magazine and I love to write a couple of things here and there and I LOVE learning about all of these different herbal remedies. I do what I enjoy, I do what excites me. And SOMETIMES, what excites me is a day in bed watching a bunch of futile movies.

Do your version. Fuck around. Stop trying so hard. You might just have a spiritual experience.

REPORT BACK!

With fun and love,

Jackie

WARNING: THIS IS NOT ADVICE FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE THE OPPOSITE ISSUE. SOME OF YOU MIGHT NEED TO THROW AWAY THE TELEVISION.

PS: Check out Noelle Janka, health coach extraordinaire. Noelle has many affordable or free resources for those who are healing. Check her out, write to her, get your healing on.

 

 

Failing Better: On Imperfection

May 26th, 2016:

Melissa: I just want to get an A+ at life. I want to be perfect at everything and for everyone.

Me: I’ll give you an A+ when you can accept yourself in the moments where all you’ve got is a D-

Melissa, if she knew me better, could have retorted with the cliche, “you should practice what you preach.” But since she doesn’t, I let her assume that I do imperfect, perfectly. It’s fun to pretend. In reality, just a couple of days earlier, I was shaming myself for my own D-. I was getting my IVIG infusion. I forced myself up to pee, wheeling my IV drip into the bathroom with me, strategically shuffling to avoid tangling the tubing. I sat on the toilet which leaves me with nowhere to look but at my reflection in the mirror. I instinctively wanted to shatter what I saw. Defenseless against my bullying brain and my morphed perception, I saw dark eyes swallowing the blue sparkle I once loved, pale skin dully planted on a bony face, dirty unbrushed hair, eyebrows that needed tweezing, chapped lips, and sun spots. I saw a jaded, and imperfect face convicting me of a broken, worthless life. I started wondering where I went wrong- how did I end up so sick for so long? Then rapid-fire: I’m not drinking enough water, maybe I’m drinking too much water, what if I’m taking the wrong supplements, did I eat the wrong foods, did I take a drug that interfered with another, did I stay on antibiotics too long, should I have stuck out the Cowden protocol, should I have used more money for x instead of y, I don’t meditate enough, exercise enough, I’m not positive enough, maybe I didn’t rest enough, or maybe I rested too much. What is it about the “fucked-upness” of me that is keeping me sick? STOP. I know this voice —it’s been a lifelong enemy of mine that I can’t shake; it’s always finding new ways to attack me. But what a pussy it is—attacking me at my most vulnerable. This voice doesn’t have the same power it once did because after a year of being sick, I raised my white flag and I stuck it right where the enemy dies: in the acceptance of my own humanity.

In 2006, I lived in a Single Room Occupancy at the Y on 92nd Street and Lexington Avenue. It was depressing; the walls were bare, and each corner held a pitiful piece of furniture: a twin bed, a desk, and a dresser. That room reeked of a stale, lifelong loneliness. I tried to stay out as much as possible. I was in school, and I worked long hours as a waitress, saving money to pay my brother back. Apparently, I had been stealing from him. As it turns out, when you use someone’s debit card without asking (“for emergencies only”), you’re actually using their money and that’s considered stealing. Who knew? And what IS the definition of “emergency” anyway? I sat at my desk, counting the money I had saved AGAIN, stuffed it back into its white envelope, and looked at my bulky computer screen. BLANK. I had to write a paper, but I was overcome with a paralyzing embarrassment. I rested my elbow on the desk, my head to my fist, and I heard a sudden burst of laughter outside my door. I blushed from an increasing disgust in myself, and that’s when it hit me. I’m ashamed of my own existence, I thought, I don’t deserve to be alive- even the way I breathe- it’s pathetic. I feel guilty just to be taking up space, breathing in fresh oxygen. I was having a revelation- I knew exactly where that feeling was conceived. I felt the same in that moment as I did in 1996, Seven inches shorter, and about 95% more innocent, I sat in my bedroom alone- enduring my punishment for being a burdensome human who couldn’t do anything right. Thanks, Dad. That’s where I started unconsciously thinking: how could I make myself “perfect” so that I could prove my worth and avoid trouble? I didn’t want to be too needy, too independent, too obnoxious, too quiet, too sparkly, too dull, too smart, too dumb, too sick, too healthy, too happy, too sad, too pretty, or too ugly. I wanted to land right where everyone would HAVE to keep on loving me- right in the sweet spot of super cool but not cool enough to provoke jealousy. Wow. I assumed that the self-awareness in itself would act as a cure. Knowing where my need for perfection came from would surely evaporate the need itself. My self-awareness would be a short-cut around all of the pain. That theory proved to be wrong as I stumbled through the next 8 years, torturing myself- taking little steps forward but continuously seeking a way OUT of this whole human being business.

I started reading the spiritual books, meditating, going to therapy, journaling, doing yoga, and chanting -not to accept myself but to FIX myself. I stayed IN ACTION all of the time, soaking up every opportunity to “better myself” with the ultimate goal of finding a formidable plateau exempt from a vulnerable and fragile life. But life, by definition, is growth. So hanging in some euphoric plateau would actually just be heaven (aka death). I know, it’s super unfortunate. The whole “we’re on Earth to grow” business can be such a BUZZKILL. But why is it so scary to accept ourselves as imperfect? I mean, all magnificent art is built around imperfection. I remember doing a short study with an acting coach here in LA. We were talking about being in the audition room and how all of us actors want to go into the room and do a perfect job. She said, “ No one wants perfect. We watch movies and TV to watch other humans’ flaws and imperfections. It’s your flaws that MAKE YOU INTERESTING TO WATCH. You’d never watch a movie, read a book, or listen to a song about someone who is ‘perfect.’ What a snooze.” That inspired me- what if I could just let myself be, accept myself, and stop obsessing over every little mistake I made?

After all of that work I did to avoid my own humanity, I got sick. (I feel like this is the correct time to say, “isn’t it ironic,” but I’d hate for a bunch of controlling assholes to attack me with, “that isn’t what ironic means” after I write a whole essay on imperfection. OH, that would be ironic too, wouldn’t it?). Illness: the thing you think will never happen to you until it fucking does. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t fall prey to Lyme Disease like all the other weak people did; I’d be better in two months, at most. As time “ticked” by (see what I did there?), and I wasn’t getting better but getting sicker, I turned back to my favored tool: shame. And I used it to beat the shit out of myself. I blamed myself for the illness. I must be manifesting it, I thought, I’m weak, what’s wrong with me? I tormented myself for months, maybe even a year. When my beat-downs were getting so powerful that they became life or death, I started to aggressively seek a new way. That’s when I came to the conclusion that I had wasted my life trying to outsmart my humanity. I was on a scavenger hunt for something that never even existed. Talk about a buzzkill. I didn’t need to be healthy to be worthy. I didn’t need to look pretty or be sparkly or always have my wits about me. It has been through my battle with illness that I accepted myself as a flawed human…sometimes.

I didn’t LEARN; I’m learnING. The desire to outsmart my humanity still creeps in on me in unarmed moments—like last week during my IVIG, and even this afternoon when someone mentioned that I looked tired, and I heard, “you look pitiful and weak. You’re an embarrassing disgrace.” Why do we always get so offended when someone suggests we look tired? Why is it such an insult to be human? Today, I’m capable of recognizing those thoughts as unproductive, calling a loving friend, and forgiving myself for whatever mistakes I may have made. I’m capable of allowing myself to be tired— to love myself anyway. But sometimes I spiral into the darkness, anyway. I’m failing…better.

When I was like 19, I was having one of many heart- pounding tantrums about a boy. I stood in a circle of girls on a street corner in NYC puffing down cigarettes. I was in the quick sand of obsessiveness, talking in hysterics about whether or not he liked me, when he would call, or how to make him love me again- who knows – all of those big deals were such a blur once the next boy showed up. I looked at my 3 girlfriends around me, embarrassed, feeling like I couldn’t escape my own insanity, and said, “I know- I need to get over this.Oh God, I’m being so annoying.. who would ever want to be friends with me like this.” One of my friends smiled and said, “What? No, Jackie, I love you. And I don’t love you in spite of your ‘crazy’ I love you for it.”
I had never heard such an idea expressed. I try, and sometimes fail, to love myself and you for our collective crazy- our humanity. And when I fall short, I remember what Samuel Beckett said, “Try. Try Again. Fail. Fail better.”

 

With Fun and Love,

Jackie