Me, So Phony? Yeah? Not Quite.

A happy Monday to you today.  We’re in week 3 of 2019, and I feel it necessary to publish a new issue of my continuing series of Behavioural Issues.

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged about anything on here.  Whether the absence has been noticed or not, I feel it necessary to catch you up on what’s been going on.

My position as a Data Entry Specialist ended just before the holidays were about to begin.  A lot was happening, not just with the recent move into my new place, the holidays kicking off, and the recent addition of my fur-son, David Meowie (pictured below), but also the job itself lent a helping hand to my ongoing anxiety.

This is where the main topic comes into play.  It’s been an issue I’ve had to deal with for at least the past two decades, but I was not aware there was an official diagnosis, nor even a name for it.

Misophonia. Please…save the “me so horny” jokes for another time. I’ve got a flow going.

misophonia

 (mis-ō-fō’nē-ă),

Dislike of sound.
See also: decreased sound tolerance, phonophobia, hyperacusis.

A “dislike of sound”.  Correct, yet an understatement of the severity of the condition.

So let’s rewind a little, yes?  Take stock of exactly what we’re dealing with here.

From as far back as I can remember, I have had some level of noise sensitivity issues.  As I’ve gotten older, the sensitivity has progressed; the issue grew larger and harder to ignore.  Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, all of them driving by with their sirens blaring weren’t greeted with just a cupping of the ears, but also the additional wincing and the anxiety levels rising.  Boxes and pallets dropping at a work site, or in a grocery store, would have me jump so high, there was a good couple of inches between my feet and the ground.  Fireworks?  Forget it.  My noise-canceling headphones get their full use on New Years’ and Independence Day.

I have had to work as a security guard for a lot of concerts and sporting events.  Not an ideal situation for someone with noise sensitivity issues.  It frequently got to the point where I was posted at spots of the arenas that were nowhere near the event we were there for.  I would end up guarding backstage areas that only heard a humming of the action, a peep of audience members (read: loud fans) so that I wouldn’t get myself in trouble, and the people could enjoy their evenings without an incident of a cranky guard.

In New York City, things got even more heightened.

I lived in a 2nd Floor walk-up in Brooklyn, where the tenants below me were a bunch of guys who wore their CAT boots indoors.  I could hear them walking through their apartment, and it felt like Hulk was walking through in a bad mood, thus putting me in a bad mood.  I used to live in that apartment, and there was a couple who lived above me, and they drove me nuts with their pounding and chaos as well. 

When the landlord finally got rid of them, he invited me and my flatmate at the time to move upstairs, thinking he had solved a problem.  We all thought the problem would be solved with this switch.  The flight of stairs was a warm welcome compared to the situation at the time.  We happily took the offer, accepted the fact we’d have to pay a little more, and shifted things upwards and onwards.

Months later, said flatmate had left to move in with her fiance`.  I couldn’t afford the apartment on my own, though I badly wanted to have it to myself.  I interviewed prospective tenants, and found a new one, who took the weekends off from the apartment to stay with her boyfriend in Massachusetts.  Everybody won with this arrangement.  She was quiet, unobtrusive, and most of all, didn’t walk through the apartment with shoes on.  Salvation!

Then she decided to move out, and it was a series of nightmares after that.  Conversations with boyfriends or girlfriends at ridiculous hours, clunking and clomping through the apartment with heels on.  I finally got another good flatmate, but then the boys of a Monty Python skit came into the picture, and forget it!  My blue heaven became a living hell.

Jobs I had to work had similar issues of noise.  Again, there was the pounding of shoes on hardwood floors, heels clacking, mindless chatter in the adjacent kitchenette.  All of these were things I could not control, nor was I in any position to try and ask them to keep it down.  I was a temp; they were (mostly) permanent staff.  The restraint to say what was irking me took a lot of strength, energy and emotion.  I was crying in the bathrooms on more than one occasion.  My walks home from work involved a lot of pit stops to liquour stores and Trader Joe’s, buying wine, Jack Daniels and/or beer.

Coming back to present day, and the issue persists.  I cannot handle the uncontrollable, ongoing chatter of people around me at work.  Especially when I know their conversations have nothing to do with the job.  I have had to deal with a manager calling out loudly to her staff about non-work-related topics.  The manager’s staff would (and probably still are) talking loudly and cackling, behaving like over-caffeinated children at a Build-a-Bear Factory.

I don’t believe in making my issues – because I’m self-aware enough to know they’re only mine in the immediate environment I’m in – other peoples’ problems.  I had approached the manager about maybe relocating me to another area of the office that was a safe distance from the noise, explaining my “noise sensitivity issues”.  It was a no-go from him, so I had to find an alternative resolution.

So I brought my noise-canceling headphones to work.  I could still hear them.

I brought in cotton balls, to stuff into the headphones.  I could still hear them.

I brought in earphones that could plug into the computer, that rested on top of the cotton balls, that were tucked into the headphones.  I could still.  Fucking.  Hear them!!

During the hours of 12 -2 pm, I would take my lunch hour, and then relieve the receptionist so that she could take her lunch hour.  The front desk is across from the door that gets used fairly frequently.  It also slams.  Frequently.  Loudly.  Shaking the frame.  The same cackling, Happy-Hour-All-Day-Bitches-Yeah! people, they were the door slammers as well.  I could not get away from them.  I smiled through tightened lips, tried my best to ignore them, and left the unspoken argument about sound alone. 

One day, when I had to relieve the receptionist for a larger chunk of the day, I put up what I thought was a friendly, well-meaning sign, requesting that people please close the door quietly behind them.

I said “please”.  I even omitted my favourite colourful adjectives.

Later that day, the sign went missing, never to be seen again.  Someone call Robert Stack!  Oh wait…..shit.

These two issues – separate that they were – coupled with the fact that I had a sabotaging supervisor, made the position a painful one to endure.  The pay was great, but the problems were greater.  I handled the aggravations as best I could.

The assignment ended the Friday before Christmas.  I’ve been in search of a job ever since.

I’ve been labeled as “odd”, “weird”, “difficult”, “bitchy” and a myriad of other terms much more denigrating than that.  I take it with a pinch of salt, knowing what I know.

Why can’t I control this?  I don’t know.  I’ve tried.  I truly have.  It’s like an invisible bully.  It keeps pushing you, pushing your triggers.  You can only ignore it for so long.  It’s similar to when kids flick rubber bands at you.  You want to get away from it, you’d do damn near anything to get away from it, but the danger stalks you.

How did this start in the first place?  What was the initial incident that sent all this rolling?  Again, I don’t know the exact thing or day, but it started in high school, and it’s grown like a sea monkey ever since.  I would go to the library on lunch break.  I was the only kid I knew who cut lunch, and it had nothing to do with any diet.  This has been nearly 30 years now.

I’ve been through multiple temp assignments, some more successful than others.Looking for jobs that will accept someone such as myself is not easy.  I’ve been on the hunt for literally a month now.  Almost every ad is “high-paced, fun environment!  Fun activities after work!”  Why can’t I get a job that promotes “Quiet!  Low-stress!  We all mind our own business and work quietly!  Introverts UNITE!”  I’m at the point now where I have to take whatever I can get, regardless of the noise level, if I don’t want to end up homeless, sending David Meowie back to the shelter.  An idea I cannot bear to consider.

While I wait for that Golden Ticket  job to peek out from under a candy bar, I’m just coming up with other ideas to try and get some income.

I have a Teespring store, where new designs are being produced on a somewhat regular basis.

https://teespring.com/stores/4-eyes-2-c

In the meantime, I’m also looking for writing and blogging gigs, while working on this one.  I’ll also be pursuing dog-walking, pet-sitting and cat-company gigs as well.

If you like what you’ve read, and you want to read more from me, some monetary encouragement would go a long way.

https://paypal.me/seecouzens

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The Wheels on the “8” Bounce Back and Back

“Bounce back.”

We’ve heard this little nugget of advice numerous times over the years, haven’t we?  It’s in the family of “don’t let a bad hour ruin a good day”.  A not-so-distant cousin of “it’s going to be okay, just relax.”  The twin brother/sister of “shake it off”.  And this family gets through the rainy days under the umbrella of “this too shall pass”.

 

With a new year starting, such as 2018, now is as good a time as any to address a new type of resolution that can ball up a lot of the old ones into one big, shiny, new ball that can bounce back to the frontal cortex of your brain.

Bounce back.

Yes, I know, it is a vague and abstract idea that could do with some elaboration.  Like any piece of art you could find in a museum or a Google Images search, it’s interpretive.  It has different connotations for different people, going through any myriad of life experiences that can distort how they see things.

Personally, the concept of “bounce back” means “Carrie, you went through something rough just now, but it doesn’t have to ride you for the rest of the day.  Tomorrow, it will only be a memory.  Get through this now, and it’ll be okay.  Shake it off.”

Working as a cashier at a major store in California, I get to deal with customers for hours at a time.  When the cliche “it takes all kinds” was created, I have to wonder if it wasn’t first opined by someone in the retail industry.

For those reading this who are unaware, California has exercised a law recently where people are charged ten cents per bag, if they choose to buy a bag from the store, as opposed to bringing in their own to use.

It frustrates people.  It frustrates A LOT of people.  Especially those who feel they’re already paying a lot in this state.  Then there are the people who have bags in their car and simply forgot to bring them in when they were parking.  It is also said that there are conspiracies about what the state is really doing with that money.  One dime on its own can feel like a drop in the bucket to some, and the difference between affording a dozen eggs, or going without.  A dime (or two) for some people can be the breaker between a good day to a bad day.

How does this tie into what I was discussing earlier?  Simple.

When the customer(s) come to the register to unload all their loot, I greet them, and then ask, “do you have your own bags, or do you need some of ours?”

Their bodies sink into themselves, their shiny eyes lose that glimmer, their inner Eeyore comes out to show itself.

“Shit, I forgot to bring bags.”  They stall, look over what they have in the cart, try to do the math as to whether the bag purchase is really worth it, or do they want to run to the car and come back, or can all the stuff be put back into the cart, and they’ll just travel the cart all the way to their vehicle.

Who knew “do you want a bag?”, would become such an existential question?

When the customer begrudgingly concedes to the purchase of a bag, this is where I insert my own “bounce back” initiative.  Call it an affirmation, call it perspective, call it cheesy, whatever.

“Not a big deal”, I say.

“If this is the worst thing to happen all day, you’re having a good day.”  Sometimes, this actually cheers the customers up.

I honestly don’t remember where I first heard this.  I’d love to credit it to my grandfather (He was a smart man, and my personality seems to have reflected his over the years).  Looking back, though, I don’t think he gave me that gem.  It may have been from a book.  Lord-of-the-Rings, we all know I’ve read plenty of those.

Wherever it came from, once it was spoken to me, my ears reached for it, gripped it tightly, and tucked it somewhere along the front right side of my brain, for safe-keeping.

A shorter way of saying it is…

Yep.

Bounce back.

Back to the store:

I’ve been a cashier for about 6 months already, and felt ready to explore other areas to work in.  They’ve been giving me little bubbles of time in the Guest Services area, where customers come to return items (Sweet baby cheeses, people!  Try the clothes on in the fitting rooms first!  Commit to the item when you’re here!)

Every time I’ve come into the store, from the outside looking in, it didn’t seem like it was too big of a stretch from doing the cashier work.  The area to work in is slightly bigger – and yes, it gets cluttered with all sorts of paraphernalia – but it seems like nothing out of the ordinary when you’re just walking by.

But then you actually get around to the other side of the counter.  Shit changes fast, at least for me.  And the whole concept of “bounce back” gets lost in the melee of multiple balls bouncing at me.  That isn’t just metaphorical either.  I’ve seen actual bouncy balls being returned.

That’s right, Paw Patrol, ya furry bastard!  I’m talking to you!

There’s a lot happening.  Returns, more returns, sorting what items were returned to said items’ respective carts, picking up items for guests who ordered online and had it delivered here.  The phone ringing on occasion.  Guests coming up to complain about the restrooms.  On my second day in that area, I was left alone.  Everything that I could do well at when there were people around, now felt next-to-impossible, when I was alone.

Not to mention the walkie-talkies.

Holy shitballs, Batman!  Those things are LOUD!

When I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m doing, and those radios go off, it’s disruptive and entirely off-putting.  I’m in a sea of overwhelmingly obnoxious sharks.  They don’t necessarily bite.  They just show their teeth in a threatening way.  Hence the “obnoxious”-ness.  It doesn’t help that I’m working alone in that area.

Anxiety crawls through my body, taps me on the shoulder, and tells me that I’m naturally going to suck at everything, no matter how hard I try not to.  That everyone can see my “Loser” cape peeking out from my work outfit, and I should run away now before I turn back into a werewolf.  (A werewolf who wears a cape with a big “L” on it.  You now have that image in your head for the rest of the day.  You’re welcome.)

 

The tears well, my shoulders cover my ears, and a look of abject fear covers my face.  Like that last punch on any fighter video game, my energy is completely depleted, and I only want to escape to a safe space.  A quiet corner of my apartment, for instance.

After that initial experience of independent guest servicing, I found my boss a little later and voiced my concern about whether I really belonged there.  I didn’t feel right there, and my anxiety had me at a highly sensitive level, mood-wise.  My manager, a woman I look up to and have great respect for, was surprised when I mentioned my condition of anxiety.

She came back to me a little later in the same day and told me she hadn’t even considered me as an anxious person because I generally handle myself very well when it comes to dealing with customers.

I explained, “when I’m at the cash register, and the people are only coming from one direction, absolutely I’m on my game.  I can do that with no problem.  It’s when there’s activity from five different directions at once, I get anxious.”

I don’t mention the fact that I’m Asperger’s without a diagnosis, because in all seriousness, without official diagnoses, it’s just conjecture.  It’s considered “uneducated guessing”.  I don’t have a doctor’s degree, I only have the history.  And quite frankly, even those specialised doctors STILL don’t have all the answers to what makes someone fit into the role of Asperger’s.  So I keep that part to myself.  I came out as gay much easier than I ever could as an Aspie.

New Year’s Eve, I had taken on a shift that would have me in that department yet again.  My entire body groaned.  My spirit lost some of its height, and I could feel that anxiety demon knocking to get in through my shins.

Not this again.

Bounce back, Carrie.  I’m telling myself this as my legs bring me closer to that dreaded area.  Bounce back, you can do this, you’re the only one who thinks you can’t.  Put on your lady-balls, and bounce the fuck back!

Later in the evening, the same manager came by to check on the progress of sorting out the returned items.  My immediate workspace was fully cluttered with miscellaneous items of all the departments.  Not to mention the items being held, a co-worker who was frustrated with me being frustrated with my current responsibilities, and a blaring walkie-talkie.

Now, I can put on a poker face from time to time.  Not often, granted, but it has come to show up in my mental toolbox from time to time.  When I can zone out into any one responsibility, it’s on.  It looks like the identical sister to Resting Bitch Face (neither of them put on any make-up), but so long as nobody talks to me, and lets me do the one responsibility without talking myself, I’m good.

Then the reality that I can’t be there wordlessly sets in, and my manager asks me how I’m doing, I’m forced to look around me once again, and take it all in.

Bye Poker-Face!  Toodles, motherfucker.  It was nice while it lasted.  Here comes good ol’ Anxiety to stand, spread-eagle, across my cheeks and eyes.

“Why do you have that face?” she asked.

“Huh?” I respond.

“You look anxious.”

“I am.  It’s just…so much!”

“You don’t have to be anxious, Carrie.  You can do this.  Just keep going.”

I don’t have to be anxious?  Really?  Just that easy?

Let’s be clear, for those of you who were lucky enough to never have the condition of anxiety;

On the computer of life, “Anxiety” is not a special feature.  It’s default.  When you inadvertently reset, boom! There it is.  That little hourglass, turning, that tells you “hang on, Sweet Cheeks!  We’re working on finding the programs that help you get along in this world.”

I don’t have the money to buy an advanced Apple, with the Confidence program version 40.1.  It’s just not in my budget.  I have a Dell. (I named it Adele, because fuck it, I love a good pun.)  I’ve only had the “Bounce Back” feature for a few years, and even that program doesn’t always run when I need it to.

So I come to the present day, where my Bounce Back feature seems to be running fairly smoothly.

I work tonight, and the full shift is as Cashier.

It’s Eureka, California, so not every customer is going to be a winner.

But it’s 2018 now, and hey, I can still bounce back.

The Edge Off ’17

As I write this final post of the year, I’ve instructed Alexa to play Stevie Nicks’ gem that made me feel so empowered for the last few decades.

This time, I’m approximately 2,588 and a half miles (if the crow flies, according to Alexa), away from where I originated this blog.  Over months, miles and the milieu of this country I live in, so much has happened.  I’ve both made and lost friends in the same fashion; personality.  I’ve acquired an apartment; a corner of my own world that I share with nobody else.

I’ve likely shared equal amounts of tears between laughter and loss, and the count continues on, I’ve no doubt, where the future is concerned.

By way of employment, the job I have is permanent and steady, the hours fruitful.

However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking to go rogue, where writing assignments are concerned.

No, I’ve still not published a book.  I was strong for a little while in the month of November (thank you, NaNoWriMo, for the little intermittent pep talks), but real life – and the exhaustion of it – side-lined me for a spell.  My tenacity may have waned, but it has not died.

I have, however, been able to save a little bit of money here and there, by putting myself on a daily allowance.  Whereas in New York, saving anything short of breath was a laughable pipe dream.  My state of mind five years ago had me rooted in the belief that I would live out my days there, no longer in need of a driver’s licence.  The reality so many years later is that people do change their minds, and priorities do tend to shift along with those brainwaves.

It’s officially 2018 here in Eureka, California.  The only thing that has me hopeful is the fact we’ve already completed nearly a year of the jail sentence that is having Drumpf for a lame stand-in as a remote idea of president.  Everything beyond that is icing on the store-bought cake.

I will be writing more often, as the schedule at the day job will be abruptly shortened now that the holidays are over.

 

If you would like to see more of my posts, contributions via PayPal are welcomed and appreciated.

paypal.me/mywearreadfriends

I will soon have my Patreon account back up and running, where I will release chapters of my ongoing works.

Happy New Year to you all.  May your 2018 be edgier than your 2017.

The Exhaustion of Semi-Success

I write from a new location and a (fairly) new life.

I write from Eureka, California, and it feels like an amazing thing that I can even craft together a sentence.

I’ve been living here for just over two months.  Of that time, I’ve been living alone for almost a month and a half.

I have my own apartment, I have my own corner of the world, I have my Nekkid Time!

It’s eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night, and I’m back from my second job.  A retail job, it’s not glitz and glamour, no.  But it does help me get established in what feels like a small town compared to the world-on-an-island also known as New York City..

So I’m not at the top of the game in anyone’s world, but much like Rudolph, I wasn’t much into games in the first place.

This city, with its tweakers and sneakers, its crabbers and snappers, its salty and its salty and its sweet.  For all intents and purposes, it is, in fact, home.

For someone who was sold on living out her days in Brooklyn, getting a coffee and bagel at the local deli seemed the penultimate on any given Sunday.  Now I just want a day off from both of my jobs so I can sleep in and visit the docks.  To get a nose full of salt water, acquire a gelato and get some pictures of the bay is a goal I yearn for.

Things are quieter and a bit calmer here.  We don’t Seamless or GrubHub here, we don’t have a subway, and Uber is simply a chic adjective in these parts.  I like it and am finding my footing in a somewhat sleepy town.

And now I sleep to dream.

In Transit(ion)

For all intents and purposes, I am currently homeless.

No, I am not writing to you from the sidewalk outside of a Starbuck’s, there is no paper cup to collect dollars or change. Nor am I seeking shelter from the rain. (Can we please get some sun, already? Come ON!)

No, instead I’m working as a receptionist today at a school on the Upper East Side, with several crying/screeching/bumbling children in the lobby. Birth control at it’s finest.

When my shift ends, I can either walk around (weather permitting — would you just fucking PERMIT already, Weather?), or I can head back to my temporary rental in Queens and get my stuff sorted back into the various cases and bags I arrived with in the beginning of May.

From here, it’s a 3-day writer’s retreat into Vermont that begins this Wednesday, followed by a couple of days with a friend in New Jersey, and then a flight to California, where I will live indefinitely.

Sky’s the limit, bitches, yeah!

So you may be asking, how did you manage to avoid the bedraggled, wayward life of so many other homeless people?

Strategising and fighting. That’s how.

Working an exhaustive 12 hours a day for a few months, and being so tired by the time I got home, I didn’t want to spend money on anything. All I wanted to do was veg out and sleep.

While I don’t miss that gig, I am very grateful for the money it has allowed me to save to be able to do this. Getting more cushion for the California pushin’.

When I tell people, “I’m moving to California”, it is usually accepted with a response of, “oh, California is very expensive.”

Ahhhhh, Pot? Kettle is on Line 1.

Yes, California is not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. I know this. In the beginning, there will be struggle. I’m used to struggle. I know Struggle so well, we snuggle.

I snuggle with Struggle. And then we drive off in a Buggle. Leaving my mind a fuggle. My heart strings all a-tuggle.

Damn it, I went too far again.

Telling someone wherever they’re going, or whatever plans they’ve made is going to be difficult, is like telling a cancer patient that they can live, but they’ll have to take chemo treatments and/or drugs.

This is not a newsflash. It doesn’t enlighten the person. Maybe you think you’re doing them a favour by warning them, but you’re really just bringing them down on their new adventure. When someone needs a boost over a fence, you don’t drop weights on their feet.

In a week and a half, I’m heading west by planes, trains and automobiles. I have my stuff, my notebooks, and my tenacity. How far that will get me is anybody’s guess.

Cali or Bust!

This has been an interesting year where my indecisiveness has run amok like so many A.D.D. children filled on sugar.

I knew I had to leave New York City. That much had been solidified well over a year ago. The precise direction in which I was headed was another subject altogether.

First, the idea of Oregon had crept it’s way into my labyrinth-like brain. Then there was the southbound direction of California waving it’s little flag in the air, like it just don’t care. (Because it’s a true playa, yo!) (I should stop.)

For a little while, the liberal-and-weird city of Austin, Texas beckoned at the back door of my brain. There was some timid knocking, nothing intense. After my constant whining about the heat of a New York City summer, said knocking had subsided, and Austin was sent away…kicking rocks back to the country of Texas. Even Austin knew it wasn’t meant to be.

I don’t even get a postcard.

In the beginning of ’17, it almost seemed like Rhode Island was going to be a reality, despite the fact it was the exact opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I took a bus to Providence, staying there with a guy I will refer to a Supah-Shady, and got a few surprises in quick, rapid-fire succession that were not of the happiest persuasion. So that idea was soon nipped in the bud.

I had debated whether or not to go through with the New England-bound plans, or do I trust my gut and stay put? Thankfully, I went with the latter, and it has made all the difference.

The moment I chose to stay in the city I love, my shoulders came back down to where they belonged, and I could use my ears again. Reason Pi you should always trust your gut. Plus, it always holds the best food.

Shoot to four months, a flatmate-from-hell, and one exhausting job later, and I’m at a brave-new-world kind of moment in my life.

I’ve moved out of the apartment I called “home” for the last four and a half years. I’m now in an Air BNB room for another week and change. From there, I’m off to a retreat in Vermont (thank you, Danielle!) for a few days. After that, it’s staying with my friend for a couple of days, and then?

…CALIFORNIA, HERE I COME!

EUREKA!

From there, who knows where my life’s journey will take me. But as the spectacular David Bowie put it, “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.”

How Something Bad Can Provoke Something Good

This past weekend was a bittersweet one.

I did not march in the protest, though I wanted to. I wanted my voice in the chorus of power, to tell the country exactly where I stood. Certain barriers, though invisible, were overpowering. Barriers like anxiety, which are overwhelming at the most inconvenient times, can get Rudolph to keep himself out of the reindeer games.

As frustration mounts, I know that simply standing by the wayside is not an option. To be mute is as unforgivable as being with the opponents. Stagnancy has no place here.

So I revert to what I know makes me feel stronger: art.

Art is a great portal to a welcoming world. It is all-encompassing, it is all-consuming, or at least it should be. It is communication without speaking.

A test run

Art is the foundation from which happiness grows. It doesn’t have to be a Degas, it only has to be a you. It has to be genuinely you. That’s the only rule.

The piece above isn’t exactly breath-taking, but it’s all me. It was a message that railed against the walls of my brain. It would not be ignored until it was let out.

This is how you can protest. Fight with your head and hands, and you will always come out the winner.

Trying to Get the Success of Trump, Without Coming Off As A Rump

In a freelancer’s world, you can do whatever you want. However, whatever it is you want to do had better include some element of sales, or your “product/service” won’t get far.

Sales requires confidence. Regardless of whether it’s inherent, or more fake-it-til-you-make-it, it needs to exist inside of you.

This is where Trump comes in, and the hypothetical Achilles heel walks the path. It’s no secret that I don’t like anything about him. I didn’t vote for him. I was vocally for Bernie Sanders from start to finish. Trump’s self-esteem trampled over the line to the darker side of arrogance. His bluntly honest prejudice against races, sexes and sexual proclivities makes my skin crawl.

Having said that, let’s take a hard look at the last couple of years and use another term for what Donald Trump is; the “Underdog”.

Normally, I root for the underdog. Movies, sports, movies about sports, Davy versus Goliath, the one guy moving against the crowds, running in the opposite direction. Reality seems to be the only platform where I want the underdog euthanized.

From the beginning, Trump had everyone laughing that he was even going to try to run. Then the campaigning started, and the general idea was that this was simply a publicity stunt. People all across the nation were waiting for the punchline, where none existed. This orange dude was still going! He was saying some of the most repugnant things, unimaginable to the minds of us “liberals”, but he was still in the race, and we lost Bernie and had to back up Hillary, simply because she was the only front-runner who wasn’t Trump.

And he beat her.

Disbelief led to rage and tears, which led to a hashtag frenzy in this modern-day age of #notmypresident’s, #wtf’s , #fourmoreyears and so on. Everyone who has a heart and actually believes in equality was asking, “how could this happen?” Oh yeah, the electoral college. The new guy in charge won them over, and that’s all that mattered as far as he was concerned. They’re the ones with the money. They’re the ones who get the final say.

Whether this was a fact easily hidden, or easily forgotten, it matters not. It is what it is.

So how does this translate into the world of freelancing? C’mon, Carrie, bring this back to the start of the circle.

You have to make your audience believe you’re the best at what you do, that they won’t get a better product or service elsewhere. Whether by building a flashy website with examples of your work and references, or holding a meeting with a presentation and PowerPoint.

This — all of this — takes a lot of confidence and conviction in yourself. It also takes a talent of dancing on that fine line that – when plucked — quivers from “confidence” to “arrogance”. It takes time to build the foundation, naturally. But it’s time well spent if you believe in what you are selling. If your product/service is truly awesome, it oftentimes sells itself.

Here are five (and a half) important questions to ask yourself:

1. Do you know your audience?

2. Do you know the proper environment for your product/service? Is this something that’s only regional, or could it be taken nationwide?

3. Are your prices reasonable for what you’re doing?

4. Is there competition? If so, how can you “beat them at the game”?

5. What is your daily regime, and is there space for alternatives? Meaning, if you generally get up at eight in the morning, do your exercises, then have breakfast and then get started on your work, will a new contract that requires you to show up at their site by 8:30 a.m. throw you off your game?

5a. Do you have the resolve and flexibility to make amendments to your day?

These are all important questions to ask yourself. If you find yourself answering “no” to any of them, you might want to consider finding a way to say “yes” to them, at least initially.

Trying To Find Peace Within When There’s Panic Without

Today feels like a funeral.  Rest in peace, Hope.  Rest in peace, Promise of Better Days.

I’ve been staring at this screen, trying to figure out what I could possibly state that hasn’t already been stated in so many ways, so many times over.  It isn’t simply a sense of being bereft.  And no, I’m not going to “just get over it”.  That’s impossible.  I’m having a hard enough time getting through it.

This new era, for lack of a better term, is not brave, nor is it encouraging.  These are scary times.  Beyond the fear of the unknown, I’m dealing with anxiety of what I am – admittedly – assuming is going to happen.  As a woman, I am scared of having my rights taken away from me just because Drumpf wants the power.  Health insurance is a human need in this day and age.  To have Obamacare repealed, with nothing supplied in it’s stead, means for me a potential slow death.  Getting health insurance from the temp agency I get a majority of my work from will take a chunk of money out of my weekly pay.

If I don’t get health insurance, I get fined.  If I do get health insurance, I get charged.  Whether it’s “fined” or “charged”, I still have to pay to live.  Sounds a lot like getting mugged, right?  Yeah, that’s how it feels, too.

I worry that I have to look over my shoulder now, checking to see if some asshole is going to try and put his paws on me because he assumes he can.  Is someone going to order me to “go back where you came from”, simply because they hear my accent?  Do I have to adopt an American accent, sounding cartoon-y and obnoxious again, like I did when I was a kid?  Just to try and blend in?  To ensure a new target isn’t self-drawn?

In the beginning of this year, I had silently resolved to not revert to politics in every conversation I have.

This is, apparently, harder than I thought it would be.  The politics are everywhere and in everything.  They were especially prevalent in my blog yesterday, in which I put the Girl Scouts on blast for their participation in the Inauguration march.

That’s money saved!  Now that I’m no longer giving them my money, I have to find other cookies to eat.  Hey there, Trader Joe’s!  What’s doin’?

After posting the blog on the Facebook page for Shaunta Grimes’ Ninja Writers (a closed group), someone read it and proceeded to tell me to “get over it, you lost!”  At which point, I stood up for myself and told Rainbow Brite – in no uncertain terms – that with Drumpf, we all lose.  Someone else piped in saying it was a political post, which is partially true. (It was mostly about not getting young girls involved in the politics that involve a highly publicised sexual aggressor.)

I said it.  I meant it.  I stand by it.

Ms. Grimes apparently couldn’t handle this with diplomacy, and wordlessly booted me off the page.  No warning.  No mediation.

So much for freedom of speech, eh?

No problem.

As I type all of this, the Inept-guration is happening now.  I can’t watch the nightmare.

The question now is, where do we go from here?  A part of me would like to hide in an underground bunker hidden away in a state that neither Drumpf nor his mail-order bride knows about.  Another part of me wants to expand my work and succeed, just to spite the racist xenophobe dick-tator.  Rise up and take power of my life, my career as a writer, my hobbies in art, and to live my united-colours-of-Benetton existence and treat my neighbours of all colours, creeds and religions or lack-thereof, with respect.

Except Trump supporters.  They can fuck off into traffic.  He might be their president, but he’s not mine.

And I stand by that statement as well.