Erin's Guide to Living

I had such a fire to write yesterday, but now that fire is gone. Can I stoke the flame (ha….originally, I wrote “blame” and I wonder if that’s a Freudian slip) if I sit here long enough and let my fingers wander across the keys? It’s hard to muster up the desire when all that lingers is dust.

This is my view while I write, so perhaps I will get inspired after all.

How does one rewire 41 years of engrained neural pathways? Hell if I know. But it’s the ever so fun journey I’ve chosen to walk right now so let’s get to it.

This spring/summer I took my first travel contract in Norfolk, VA with a friend. Overall, it was fine. We got a kick ass three story condo in Virginia Beach (by the beach!) which felt like a win, but the landlords were fucking nightmares so that really darkened our experience. We bought bikes and I cycled all over that boardwalk, saying hello to my man Neptune, watching the sunrise, running my errands, and listening to numerous bands putting on free shows. I love bike culture and really wish I could do that here in Asheville, but – tradeoffs. Turns out I still hate being a nurse. However, we worked with phenomenal people who welcomed us with open arms, and the connections I made there continue to bring me joy, even though the job has ended.

I also met someone there. It seemed at first that it would just be an innocent summer fling with a fun man. He WAS fun. And a great dancer (gets me every time). What I didn’t anticipate was how his sweetness, his attention, and his affection would crack open a part of me I have kept inaccessible for years.

This man will probably never know how his tenderness allowed me to open up to a part of myself that I have ignored since childhood. He will never know the role he played in my journey to live a life unencumbered by fear and judgment. It leaves me in awe – the tiny amount of time we spent together but the massive amount of influence he still weaves to this day. He has so much of my gratitude.

I remember an English girl I met at my favorite hostel in Buenos Aires. Upon first glance you wouldn’t notice anything extraordinary, but the moment you engaged with her it was a constant ride of enchantment. She and her husband only stayed for a few days, but the hostel was small and intimate and all the guests became well acquainted. She delighted all of us with her kindness and infectious joy. Everyone was drawn to her like a magnet. We craved her light. I can’t remember her face, but I remember her energy, and how it felt like a gift to be in her presence. That was 16 years ago but I can still reach out and grab the memory it’s so close. One evening we were sitting in the common area having drinks and she told me a spellbinding story about her adventures in the Perhentian Islands. The picture she painted was so magical, so ethereal, that I seared the location into my heart and vowed one day that I too would go. I have not forgotten this promise to myself. Bonus that most people have never heard of this archipelago, since I prefer to hit the places less traveled. I smile with delight every time I think of her, and she probably wouldn’t even remember me. It’s so surprising how life can place you into the hands of someone, and the time you spend together is as brief as an exhale, but their impact continues to ripple through all your years. I hope she has everything she wants in this life.

It makes me wonder who else is out there, sending silent prayers of thanks up to the Universe for having briefly crossed paths with me. It would be so cool to know the tiny things I did without knowing that may have led to huge transformations in someone’s life.

I digress.

Over many dates with Summer Boyfriend, and countless hours of self-reflection, disturbance started to bubble up. Great. There was something inside I needed to handle. It was calling my attention, and I couldn’t ignore it. Smash cut to the present moment, where I am now acutely aware that I have repressed the emotion of anger since I was a child (thanks, childhood traumas). This has led to infinite tears while confronting this truth, writing countless pages in my journal, meditating my face off, and diligently working through Mindful Anger which has turned out to be one of the most powerful books I have ever read.

This. Shit. Is. Heavy.

My default emotion has always been sadness. There was nothing else on the spectrum. The author of Mindful Anger speaks a lot to us “anger repressors” and how our notable trait is to take anger and transfer it into something more fun – like depression, anxiety and migraines. Hello!? This summer has been a deep dive into my psyche, excavating the false beliefs I have held true since a child. Beliefs buried so deeply that unconsciously they still properly fucked me up, yet remained hidden enough that I wasn’t aware of them. Well played, guys. I have also learned that I am allowed to feel other emotions besides sadness. I know some of you are like “duh!”, but anger repressors are very different. We have lived our lives shutting off a significant part of ourselves that very much needs (and deserves) attention. Not having access to that part of me meant any uncomfortable feeling was automatically placed in the “sadness” file. It should be no surprise to anyone that I’ve been on antidepressants for years. But by going through the exercises in this book, I am learning to pay more attention to my feelings and emotions. For example, where I always defaulted into sadness and then would spiral into darkness, my awareness is changing. I am discovering that I can also feel disappointed, bummed, annoyed or irritated. Those emotions are so much lighter than sadness, and I am learning to identify them accurately. I can own them, give them a voice, then let them go. When I do that, the cycle is complete, and nothing is lingering.

Truth is, I’m in the process of accepting this is going to take a while. In this moment I am fragile and need to be handled delicately. I cry a lot. I sleep a lot. I feel very lonely. I am peeling back so many wounds I wonder if they will ever end. I have mountains of forgiveness to climb. A lot of unpacking the “why” of my repressed anger means going back and revisiting painful experiences I have suppressed. I feel like I’m exposing the soft underbelly I’ve spent my entire life protecting. But I’m staying the course. I am sitting with my feelings of discomfort even though my first instinct is to run and numb out. I continue reading the anger book. I continue meditating and writing. I continue being honest and authentic with my most basic self so that she feels seen, heard, important and worthy. This is some of the most difficult internal work I’ve had to do in my life, but I know on the other side is freedom. So, I keep going. Send good vibes my way if you would.

As far as work news goes, I signed a contract in Vermont and will be there Oct-Jan with my dear friend Melissa! Thrilled to bits to have a New England fall and Christmas. And to work in a union hospital. Who knows, guys. After this assignment I may end up liking my career after all. Post Vermont I’m heading back to Texas/Mexico until March as it only took one winter in Asheville to know I will never do that again. You can take the girl out of Texas….

xxx

Three deaths have happened within the past two months. First to go was my grandfather. In order to get back to Texas, I had scheduled my bereavement leave for October when his Celebration of Life was planned. Naturally, crazy family drama sprang up so I backed away from those plans and opted for my own celebration at the beach in South Carolina, where I knew I would have peace and the proper space to honor him. I wasn’t close with my grandfather in the end, so I didn’t think his death would affect me when it happened. However we were close in the past, so I suppose a bit of nostalgia took over and I let the memories trickle in. Surprisingly, what popped up was shame about my behavior in ways I didn’t expect. I had hardened myself against my family years ago, due to the piles of dysfunction I was forced to navigate since childhood. I realized I had projected this same hardness onto Poppy. He was a “good Christian man” as Southerners love to say, as if it is some sort of merit. I cringe whenever I hear it. In my experience, the “good Christians” are the darkest souls with the most devious of intentions. I’ll be honest – I have a complicated relationship with Christianity. After attending a Christian high school that I can only describe as “cult” like, attending a mega-church that I can only describe as insane, and then bearing witness to the various abhorrent actions of other Christians that were done “in the name of God”….well, I got issues. I get that. Something to dig into at another time. But I mention this to provide a little clarity: my hackles are up anytime someone wants to “preach the good Word.” So it only makes sense that I would get irritated when he would want to pray for me, or tell me how much God loves me. I found his constant talk of Jesus unwelcome and incessant. I prefer when people keep their spiritual beliefs to themselves, and this always felt like such an intrusion. 

I let these memories simmer a while, until I realized that the turmoil I was battling was due to the fact that I couldn’t reconcile with a dead person. Will he ever know I wish I had been softer? I wish when he wanted to pray for me, or talk about the Bible, I had responded with loving and gentleness. Why did I insist on being so difficult? I fear I came across as cold and dismissive, when my heart is actually warm and welcoming. 

I have always loved Wayne Dyer’s quote about choosing to be kind over choosing to be right, so I know this is where I failed. Life is always peeling back my layers, and sometimes looking at what lies beneath can be ugly. It takes courage to not back away from it. When this happens, I try to stand face to face with the ugliness, drop my ego, admit I was wrong, and explore what it will take to change. It took his death to make me question my intentions, and why I fought so hard against something that ultimately didn’t matter. In fact, it wouldn’t have hurt me at all to listen and make an old kind man happy. That’s what he was, you know…..kind. The kindest man I’ve ever known. I don’t say things like this carelessly, like everyone on social media with their “Happy Father’s Day to the BEST Dad ever” bullshit. We all know comments like those are glib. We also know that I don’t say things like that about my family. For example, my grandmother was a total bitch. 

But Poppy truly was a man of kindness and loving. He is the only man in my life who had consistently shown me gentleness and acceptance. He never had a cross word; he never yelled. I have never seen Poppy angry. I never doubted his love for me or his raw enthusiasm when he would hear my voice or see my face. I wish I had known how lucky I was to have him as an anchor, steadying me through all the storms I encountered from the men in my life, until I found enough strength to get to the shore on my own. I want him to know he was my northern star, helping me find my way through a family devoted to anger, contention and fear.  

A few days before he died I was able to speak to him on the phone. My mom had called to give me an update, and I just had a sudden urge to let him know I was thinking about him. I rang, and my aunt held the phone up to his ear while I talked. His speech was incoherent by this point, but he was still oriented enough to understand what was happening around him. When he heard my voice, he made a sound of such pure primal joy that I started crying. I had to pull the phone away so he wouldn’t hear my voice crack. I felt flooded with love for this man who had always flooded me with love. And in that short, sweet conversation, I was able to say goodbye to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

I had a moment by myself at work the day he died. None of my friends were working that night so I had time to be alone with my thoughts. I thanked him for sharing his light and his love, and apologized for being unavailable in so many ways. I laid down my shame and asked him to forgive me. And knowing him, he isn’t bothered by it, because that’s just the sort of man he was. Hard to offend. Quick to forgive. Generous with love. I hope I carry him with me in all those ways. I want to be soft, kind and generous. I want to overflow with loving and forgiveness. For myself and everyone I encounter. So much of my personal journey involves shining a spotlight on parts of myself that are prickly and unyielding. I didn’t realize these areas existed as they remained undisturbed for years, happy to thrive in the darkness. I am grateful that his death crumbled those hard places in me, and I will be better because of him. 

I hope you’re having a ball on the other side, Poppy. I know that light of yours is touching just as many souls now as it did when you had a body. We are all lucky to have you. Keep looking out for me, k?

Joe Lewis 1928-2021 ✨

Hi y’all.

Life update ➜ I’m a nurse and live in the mountains now!!

This blog has changed so much since the days of yore when Marissa started this website for me, insisting I capture my travels on something more official than a mass email to everyone on my contact list. I heeded her word and my blog became a success…to my inner circle. Which is all I want. Writing has been my catharsis since I was a child. My truest form of expression. It’s a place where I can lay down my barriers, expose my vulnerabilities, and let the process wash over me, rinsing away all the spots where I feel tight. I think it’s a necessary cleansing for my soul to do this, but at the same time, I resist it. Hence the 4 year silence. I’m still trying to figure out why I do this. 

When I decided to go to nursing school, tackling that plus a job and a chronic illness took every last spoon, and I had nothing left to give. I didn’t even dance. I felt starved for connection to myself, and had a gnawing sense of needing to nurture the artist within, but unsure as to how. As I’m writing these words now I feel the flow coming back to me. Energy is coursing through my fingertips as they remember how this is done and stumble their way across the keyboard. I feel settled. Writing is easy, but it is also hard. Perhaps because of what it demands. It takes everything out of me. And when it’s over I’m left exhausted – empty from pouring everything out, anxious about the reaction, annoyed that I care, and ultimately warmed by the feedback. 

So, what is this page now? First it was a travel blog and super fun. Then I got sick and it chronicled everything I was going through with endometriosis and life was quite terrible. Now things feel fresh and different. Perhaps I’m trying to make this blog fit into a box it has outgrown. Maybe it doesn’t need a box at all, but just to be a space where I can come and unpack all that is weighing on me. I definitely need to rewrite the “About Me” section, and probably make it a bit more generic so that I don’t have to change it with every season of my life 🙂

Endo doesn’t rule my life anymore like it did in my 30’s. It was a cruel dictator for so long that sometimes I forget I am now (mostly) free. And quite frankly, I’m sick of talking about it. Is that awful to say? I know that wasn’t the case for a long time. But I do consider myself healthy now, thanks to Katie at www.healendo.com. I have waxed poetic to those in my life about how she singlehandedly gave my life back to me. Katie and I started working together in March of 2018. By the time September rolled around I felt strong and healthy enough for my trip to the Middle East. I had reconciled myself to only participating in 1/3 of what was planned to help avoid disappointment in myself. Imagine my surprise when I participated in everything! I remember being most worried about Petra. I knew it was going to be hot and it was going to be hard. We also did the candlelight tour the night before our day tour and I was worried I had signed up for too much. The candlelight tour……<insert jaw drop>. You guys. Thousands of flickering candles lighting the path as we snake our way through the ancient gorge (the Siq), on roads the Nabataeans built in 150BC. The cavern walls towered above us, oppressive and black against the night as we squeezed through the narrow openings. We spilled out in front of the treasury and were guided to sit down. It smelled like manure and Texas farms and then the Bedouins start singing and playing the rababa, their traditional stringed instrument. During music breaks we listened to stories about the majesty that was Petra in her glory days. It was such a surreal moment for this little history nerd and I couldn’t have conjured a more magical evening with all my fantasies combined. 

The next day, we completed our tour with the guide and he dropped us off at the base of the monastery. We could climb the 850 steps for the view, or turn back. Duh, we climbed. I was slow. I stopped a lot. Cheyne and Yossi stopped with me, and made me laugh through my frustrations of holding them back. I literally staggered to the top and collapsed. I looked back and forth between the monastery and the people bounding up behind me. Tears were pooling in my eyes because I couldn’t believe what my body had just accomplished, and at the same time I was angry that it couldn’t do all the things I asked of it. Cheyne came and sat down next to me and saw my sadness. “I just don’t understand why I can’t be like them,” I said. “Honey, they don’t have a chronic disease.” And that simple response carried so much compassion and gentleness that it allowed me to give myself a break. I’ll never forget how sweet that moment was with him.  

So we all know now that despite everything, I’m still alive. Thanks to science. After Israel and Jordan, I came back home and started nursing school. Smash cut to: drama, tears, frustration, questioning every life choice…..I am now a nurse. Hooray. I guess.

And I live in Asheville! I wish I could say I concocted some grand scheme to get here, but the reality is much less dramatic. A friend was applying to hospitals out of state and when she told me she applied to Asheville, I thought “That sounds cool. I’ll apply too.” So I did, accepted the job, and moved. And actually that is probably the most Erin thing I could have done to get here. 

I never imagined my life would unfold in this way. I feel happiness and contentment on levels so deep I didn’t know these wells ran beneath the surface. These mountains and these waterfalls have soothed my soul in ways I didn’t know I needed or wanted. I’m absorbing everything in this new space. My anxiety has decreased, and subsequently so has my pharmaceutical intake. My days off entail discovering a waterfall, hiking, watching the sun set over the mountains, exploring wineries, or just being outside in a general way and not wanting to kill myself because the sun is friendly here. I’m going white water rafting on class IV rapids this week. I fucking LOVE this.

However! It’s not all puppies and rainbows, guys. Don’t worry. I could never upset the balance of the universe. I hate being a nurse. Yeah, I said it. My hospital sucks. We are chronically understaffed, underpaid, and overworked. It’s not at all the fantasy they paint for you in school. But I’m not alone, and that solidarity binds me with my colleagues. The people on my floor are some of the smartest, kindest, supportive, open-minded people a girl can know, with the darkest senses of humor. My tribe. How did I get this lucky? Work simultaneously feels like a party and like walking the death march. I’m okay with it, because Asheville was never going to be long term. It was always a stepping stone to traveling. But now that I’m here, I’m not sure when I’ll be done with this place. I won’t be ready to leave until I’ve squeezed everything out of her. This may take a while. In the meantime, I’ll keep adventuring with my new adventurous friends. Plus I just recently discovered an authentic taqueria where I can fill up on real Mexican tacos to my heart’s content. I’ll be good for a while because honestly that was the only thing missing.

One thing I’ve noticed – I’ve stopped worrying about the future. I’m not sure when that happened, but I do know when I recognized it. I took myself to Mexico in January as a graduation present to myself. 3 weeks in one of my favorite countries – I was blissed out. I remember standing on my balcony in Puerto Vallarta, watching the waves roll in, the sun start to set, and a smattering of sailboats dotting the horizon and becoming silhouettes against the fading light. What a perfect time to feel gratitude and appreciation for my life. Conversely, what a perfect time for anxiety to rise into my throat. My heart rate increased as thought about not passing my NCLEX, and how all my plans would have to be put on hold. Or worse, I would pass, and I would move to Asheville and not make any friends and spend all my days in the dark and lonely and sad. I felt this panic climbing up from my bowels, clawing it’s way into my mind and trying to take root and I STOPPED IT. I’ve never done that before. But I literally spoke to it and said “No, no. Not now. Now is for Mexico.” AND IT WENT AWAY. And, spoiler alert: everything worked out better than I imagined.

This post is all over the place.  I guess that’s what happens when you haven’t posted in (gulp) years. But I’m still paying for this domain so let’s do this. Here are the bullet points:

• I live in the mountains (How do I ever get used to this?? It’s extraordinary)
• I’m a nurse on a Trauma Care floor 
• I turned 40 last month and went to Charleston to celebrate with people I love
• I upgraded from a manual stick shift to an automatic 
• I’m still teaching myself how to play the guitar
• I have lots of new friends 
• I’m really happy 🙂
• I own hiking boots and Tevas now (new topography = new shoes)
• I travel somewhere new every month 
• I get 12 weeks vacation per year (I arrange my schedule to have a week off every month. WHY WOULD I NOT?!)
• My first floor patio is full of furniture and plants and other fun stuff and no one has stolen a thing (still surprised by this)

So, cheers to a new chapter, the magic of the mountains, and the continued efficacy of a good SSRI. 
xxx