mj opalsky

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Particularly in the last fifteen minutes that I’ve been staring at this blank page. There is so much I want to say but I don’t know where to begin. A kind of performance anxiety might be in play, where I begin to second-guess myself and my motivation to write. But I think the most important thing I can do is to be present with the discomfort, to wait it out and not run from it.

I am not a seasoned writer by any means, but I do have plenty of experience starting and stopping. My heart would get carried away with the notion of becoming a writer every once in a blue moon. I bought all the writing guides I came across in used book sales. I registered for writing workshops at the Gotham Writers Workshop back when I lived in New York City. I even started a few blogs, one related to baking, and the other devoted to a newly formed infatuation with Korean dramas. (I titled it, “Korean Dramas Make Me Cry”, which was an understatement given their profound and clockwork-like ability to make me bawl until I became an empty shell.)

But here is what happens. I don’t read more than a few chapters, if that much. I stop attending workshops. I peter out after a few entries. I shelve my dream until the guilt of giving up fades.

What I could never understand is, why do I have this dream if I can’t do it?

Since we are on the subject of recurring, unfulfilled dreams, I have always wanted to play the guitar. In a band. And sing. As I have never attempted to write a song of my own, I suspect that I envision myself rocking out playing covers. Or maybe I have an undisclosed fantasy of uniting with a talented songwriter who is in dire need of a minuscule Filipino-Chinese-American gal with limited vocal range and elementary strumming skills to give full expression to their music. I haven’t given it much thought.

I think I was sixteen or 17 when I bought my first electric guitar, inspired as I was by The Smashing Pumpkins. In the nearly thirty years since, several guitars have passed into my hands. At some point, I even briefly entertained the idea of becoming a classical guitar major. But I can’t say that I know more now than in those first few months when I learned the major C-scale in open position. If music is a foreign language, then I have yet to move on beyond basic greetings. Hola! No hablo español. Adiós!

Oh, and speaking of foreign languages. I came to this country from the Philippines when I was five years old. I entered the first grade knowing only the bits of English we might’ve been taught in school or whatever may have seeped into my brain from blankly watching Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk on TV back in Manila. I was desperate to do well in school and assimilate. Unfortunately, in my exuberance to do so, I ignorantly decided to discard my native language and identity, as one would shed a coat that was no longer in style. 

Though I was obliged to take years of Spanish in middle school and high school, it wasn’t something that really captivated my interest back then. I had a few Spanish-speaking friends, but it was beyond the scope of my imagination to practice with them. During freshman year orientation, I scanned the course bulletin and thought, wouldn’t it be so worldly and fascinating to take Russian 101? I will neither confirm nor deny that it had anything to do with the cute Russian boy that my friend and I were grouped with during orientation.

Fast forward a month into the semester and I received the first of many “W’s” (for Withdrawal) in my college career. In my defense, this was long before Duolingo and YouTube and podcasts were available. I was also the only non-Russian student in the entire class, and grading was based on a curve. It would‘ve taken too much bandwidth to pass the class given the rest of my schedule, or so I reasoned. Nearly a decade later, my friend called me up to say “Guess who I ran into at work? Sergey!” Then without missing a beat, “Remember when you registered for Russian 101 because of him?”

No mercy.

But to be honest, the most shameful thing about it was that I was doing okay in the class. I wasn’t going to throw the curve but I’m pretty sure I could’ve passed had I stuck with it. I say that now, with the confidence of having accumulated three bachelors degrees and an innumerable amount of college credits from five different institutions. But back then, I became overcome with hopelessness. The brilliant colors of my motivation dulled to muted grays. I wanted to protect myself from further hurt and future disappointment. 

This has been the narrative of my life, and I am so fucking tired of it.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I often calculate how much of my anticipated life span I have left to go in order to accomplish the things that I want. Time seemed like this endless commodity that I could afford to waste in my teens and 20s. By the time my thirties rolled around, I thought “Okay, you’ve used up 33%. You better start getting serious.” Now, at 45, I’ve only got half a tank left — if I’m lucky! — and I am forced to admit I’ve been driving around the same block this whole damn time.

I have been more or less aware of my tendencies, but I have never been clear of the “why’s.” Why do I abandon my dreams instead of pursuing them? Why does it feel like my dreams are impossible for me? Why do I insist on making myself so small?

Recently, something I came across incidentally seemed to provide an answer. I was listening to a Mel Robbins podcast where she interviewed Jim Kwik, a brain coach, author and entrepreneur. I was so moved by his personal story that I actually bought his book, Limitless: Upgrade Your Brain, Learn Anything Faster, and Unlock Your Exceptional Life. In the book, he quotes James Clear (author of Atomic Habits, apparently another must-read) in discussing the impact of negative emotions, using the example of running into a tiger in a forest: 

     “When that tiger crosses your path, for example, you run. The rest of the world doesn’t matter. You are focused entirely on the tiger, the fear it creates, and how you can get away from it.”

Essentially, negative emotions can narrow a person’s focus and range of possibilities. This instinct is probably very helpful in an emergency or life-or-death situation, but how does one go on living the rest of their life? I think this is where PTSD enters the picture. I’ve been dealing with that metaphorical tiger since childhood, and I have yet to outrun it. It’s always lurking around the corner, ready to remind me that I am not allowed to be out of its reach.

The situation had come to a head when my daughter was about a year old. I appeared fine on the outside, but internally I was crumbling. Tigers were everywhere. Thankfully, with the help of a psychologist, a social worker and a psychiatrist, I was able to heal enough to become functional and content, with the occasional chance of joy. But because we were too busy shooting tigers (or at least turning them into harmless kittens) in 50-minute increments there wasn’t enough capacity to address the more existential or utopian concerns. Like, why do I keep chasing my tail?

The road from the end of therapy to this moment hasn’t been entirely smooth, but here I am. No longer terrified, but curious. Now that I’ve answered the “why’s”, I can ask myself new questions like, what if there is nothing left to fear? And what happens if I don’t run?

I want to see just how far I can go.

Yesterday, before embarking on what would have been my third 5K of the week (spoiler alert: I didn’t make it), I downloaded a Mel Robbins podcast titled “3 Small Decisions That Make You Feel Incredible: Do This Every Morning After Waking Up” to listen to on my run. I had just finished a long video date with a dear friend. Among the things we discussed was how to tackle self-care, a daunting prospect when one is unsure where to begin.

As I have been obsessing nearly non-stop about this very topic for the last few months, I repeated an oft-heard piece of wisdom. That is, making even the smallest change, when applied consistently, will allow one to build momentum for future success. For example, instead of becoming overwhelmed by the thought of overhauling my diet, I could start today with eating a carrot. Rather than creating stress with overambitious goals for exercise at the outset, I could start today with ten jumping jacks. 

I felt good about offering this advice, thinking that it was the very thing I’ve been practicing lately. This particular podcast seemed apropos, and I’ve come to enjoy Mel’s charismatic delivery of scientifically backed insights. I donned my sneakers and headphones and, from a cold start, began running south towards Pacific Beach. I quickly settled into a comfortable pace which, mind you, is only a shade faster than a power walk around the mall, as I listened to Mel explain the cognitive bias of false confidence. 

To paraphrase, false confidence is the erroneous belief that one is somehow exempt from the rules that govern science and common sense. Instead of making hard decisions that are better for us in the long run, we make easy decisions that feel good in the moment. In Mel’s example, false confidence caused her to forgo turning in early to get rest before an early flight home. She opted for the easy decision of partying on with her team, which inevitably led to a chaotic, workout-less morning. (This sounds like SOP for my entire 20s.)

The three decisions that she touts to be life-changing arrive from small but critical moments in our morning. As a public service to the five readers of this blog, and a reminder to myself, here they are:

1. Do not hit the snooze button. Just get up.
2. Natural light before artificial light. No screens and scrolling before getting at least a few minutes of sunlight.
3. Drink a big glass of water before anything else. If possible, hold off on coffee for at least 90 minutes.

The podcast was occasionally interrupted by updates from my running tracker app, which reported my status every half mile. Though I had run nearly two and a half miles in one direction, I kept disregarding the little voice that insisted I turn around. I was in the midst of a runner’s high, padding along euphorically on a brilliant Saturday morning along the boardwalk. I may have even been feeling a little self-righteous, since I more or less had already incorporated these decisions into my life. 

But as the podcast was ending, I began to feel my right calf tensing up until it almost seized on me. I immediately changed course to head back but it was too late — I had to stop running. At this point, I am exactly 2.69 miles away from home and I can barely walk. Every step was excruciating and drew a sharp, involuntary cuss word. I limped along the boardwalk till I could turn onto a side street and continue walking on Mission Boulevard. I prayed that it would shave a few hundred feet from the commute. Worst case scenario, I’d be more conveniently poised to take an Uber or an ambulance.

As I hobbled home, I had plenty of time to think of the false confidence that landed me in this situation. That is, I am someone who doesn’t need to warm up before a run. I can run my longest distance, and run it for a second and third time in the same week. Yours truly is exempt from the rules of exercise physiology. In other words, I am special.

It appears that I have a love-hate relationship with running — I love running, but running hates me. And my husband incessantly reminds me of how injury prone I am when it comes to running. I own just about every kind of cockamamie gadget on Amazon for over-exuberant runners. Knee and ankle compression braces, plantar fasciitis boots, bunion correctors — you name it, I’ve bought it. There is a closet full of evidence that I could benefit from a more conservative, low-impact alternative — like knitting. Whenever an injury derails my running ambitions, I swear off running like it’s a cheating ex until my memory and resentment fade.

The false confidence that enables me to skip warmups applies not only to running, but to yoga, climbing, and surfing. Eventually I make up for that time by researching how I strained myself during an innocent downward dog or an embarrassingly easy 5.8 at the climbing gym. As for surfing, I march into the water past the sorry blokes stretching on the beach. More waves for me! I haven’t received my comeuppance (yet) for not warming up before a surf session, but hey, there’s always next time!

But false confidence has figured into many other facets of my life, not just the fitness related ones. As in, I am a normally functioning person with three to four hours of sleep every night. Other people can get cancer from smoking, but not me! I can eat anything I want, as much as I want, with no recourse. I don’t need help, I can handle this all on my own.

By the time I’ve shambled home, it’s time for brunch. My daughter waited almost two hours since I told her, “I’ll be back soon,” leaving her staring at a tray of freshly baked chocolate croissants. Ken was too engrossed on his computer to notice the pronounced limp I was desperately trying to hide. For this I was grateful, because right before I left, I had (false) confidently assured him that I knew exactly what I was doing this time around. 

After brunch, I sat down at my desk to vent into the nonjudgmental void of my online diary. That’s when read the entry I jotted down right before I left for my run:

    There are many things that I go all in, that’s just me. I do it until I overdo it. But I’m trying to be mindful and careful and build on the things that I’m doing one bit at a time. It didn’t take long to go from no running whatsoever, and now I’m about to embark on my third 5K this week. Third! 

Mic drop!

There is a phrase that rings in my head, “Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.” It is attributed to the 1980s fictional action hero of my youth, G.I. Joe. There are other brilliant quotes regarding awareness and change, created by some of the the most formidable minds in history. But for me this is by far the stickiest. Maybe because it implies that awareness of a troubling behavior or situation will naturally lead to the ideal resolution. (This idea would later become formalized as the G.I. Joe Fallacy, to indicate the error in believing that simple awareness of our cognitive biases is enough to avoid them.) 

Had G.I. Joe said, “Now you know, but knowing is only half the battle,” then perhaps the generations that followed would be more proactive in their approach to self-improvement. Maybe, maybe not. What I can see with the greatest of clarity right now is the deep fundamental chasm between knowing and doing. All the knowing in the world won’t matter if I don’t cross the rickety suspension bridge to the side of doing. But just thinking about it has my heart palpitating. Did I ever mention I was scared of heights?

It seems that whenever I shine the light of awareness, it illuminates yet another stumbling block on the path to enlightenment. But I won’t be discouraged, because isn’t it about the journey, not the destination, after all? Whether we run, walk, roll or shuffle, the destination is inevitably the same for all of us, returning to the world as dust and memories. The question life asks each of us is: will you go blindly forth to a bitter end, or lead an examined life and learn to appreciate the scenic route?

I’ve been trying to make it a habit to read more lately, and this has been facilitated by removing Pokémon Go from my phone, again. I first quit PG around 2017 after a nearly two years long obsession with it. I had many conversations with my therapist about it; I will attest that it wasn’t the primary reason I was seeing her in the first place. But it just goes to show that I can’t let my guard down with any addiction. I reinstalled it against my better judgment and, wouldn’t you know it, in no time I was back to driving as slow as possible along busy streets to spin the PokéStops, and sorting my Pokédex in the middle of the night instead of sleeping. I learned how to use the Poke Genie app so that I could battle in raids remotely and analyze the individual values (IVs) of my precious Pokemons. In all, I was sucked back into the PokeHole.

However, I experienced something between a modest epiphany and a mild breakdown recently, and it was in that time I re-examined my relationship with the game. Basically I asked myself, “What the f*ck are you doing?” Some people can have a casual relationship with alcohol and be content with that once in a while beer or glass of wine. Some people can buy a pack of cigarettes for a party or BBQ and have no qualms about tossing it the next day. And some people can play Pokémon Go without having it become the end-all, be-all of their universe.

I am not any of those people.

It has been said that nothing is either bad or good, but thinking makes it so. (Kudos, Shakespeare.) I have three friends that are long-term aficionados, levels 48-50. One is a physical therapist, another works at Qualcomm, and the third an aerospace engineer. That’s right, an actual rocket scientist! Three accomplished people with meaningful and full lives, managing career, family, hobbies, and bills. There is no way they’re spending as much time on it as I am compelled to — and yet, I still can’t budge from level 37, no matter how many hours I toil away at it.

Merriam-Webster lists two definitions for addiction:

     1 : a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms (such as anxiety, irritability, tremors, or nausea) upon withdrawal or abstinence : the state of being addicted

     2 : a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly

I find this interesting because it ties into something that I recently read — now that I’m reading more, thank you very much. There appears to be a delineation between “big-T trauma” and “little-t trauma”, with the “big-T’s” being most commonly associated with the development of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The “little-t’s” are the distressing occurrences or situations that fall shy of big-T severity. However, frequent exposure to little-t’s in one’s life can provoke a big-T response, a kind of death by a thousand paper cuts, so to speak. 

It made me think that addictions can be divided similarly. There are “big-A addictions” and “little-a addictions”, if you will. It wouldn’t be contested to say that addictions to alcohol, smoking, drugs, and gambling fall under the big-A category. Big-A’s often have dedicated 12-step programs to help overcome them, because not addressing the addiction would inevitably lead to deleterious effects in one’s health, happiness and overall survival.

What about the “little-a’s” then? There could be “healthy” little-a addictions to exercise, clean eating, and gardening. Then there are the little-a’s that might not be as productive, like compulsive Amazon shopping (guilty!) and bingeing routinely on Netflix (yep, this too.) Of course, there’s the ubiquitous little-A addiction to social media and to digital devices in general that, based on what I’ve heard the experts say about it, can be so detrimental to one’s well-being that it begs to planted in big-A territory.

From my experience, I don’t think there is such a thing as a healthy addiction. Around the time that I decided to quit drinking (now five years sober), I exchanged my big-A for a handful of new little-a’s; namely, rock climbing, high-intensity interval training (HIIT), and intermittent fasting (IF). I became so obsessed with climbing at the gym, stringing multiple days together without a break, that on waking my hands were so numb I was unable to unclench the fists they had formed. I was certain that I was doing irreparable nerve damage, but it didn’t occur to me to slow down. Thankfully, the Covid pandemic eventually put a kibosh on my climbing schedule, making the choice for me.

And so it was, too, with the HIIT and IF. In addition to climbing, I was working out like a fiend to these ten and 20 minute workout videos, often back to back. I sang Chloe Ting’s praises and literally tried to convert every single friend I had to become members of the Church of HIIT. Initially, I had come to intermittent fasting as a method of a treatment for depression, which is essentially what I was struggling with that led me to quit drinking in the first place. Since I had no trouble whatsoever adjusting to the 16-hour fasting schedule, I often pushed myself to fast 18, 20 hours for the challenge. Maybe it felt so helpful and satisfying to control my eating because I felt like I had control over my state of mind.

I had become laser-focused, fiercely energetic, and for the first time in my entire life, I had chiseled abs and arms. I chugged on like a deranged Energizer Bunny until I lost so much weight and fat that my period decided to go on vacation. At first it went away for a long weekend, and the next month it decided to take an extended backpacking trip to Europe. At that point, I was forced to acknowledge that something was wrong. I had unknowingly but directly marched into eating disorder domain, my amateur guess being anorexia athletica.

Where does Pokémon Go fit into all of this? For those who are pleased to think about it, I believe there is a line between habit and addiction that is different for everyone. When it crosses into addiction territory, the division between little-A and big-A is more of a spectrum than a binary system. Where it lies on that spectrum depends on the relative cost it demands from the individual. We give to it all that we can, but it always wants more. 

There is so much attention given to the physical, mental and psychological price of addiction, but it also costs us in time. Time to be present, to think deep thoughts, for undivided attention with loved ones, to create meaning in our lives. This is what Pokémon Go was asking of me until I began to cherish time for what it is — a precious, finite gift that could be snatched away at any given moment  — and I decided that it was too big a price to pay.

A few days ago, I wrote the following statements onto the inside of my left forearm:

     Be impeccable with your words.

     Don’t take anything personally.

     Don’t make assumptions.

These are the first three of the four agreements listed in Don Miguel Ruiz’s book, “The Four Agreements”. I wrote them with a fine point, purple-hued surgical skin marker that I purchased on Amazon. Not for this purpose — I had bought a set of markers in anticipation of scribbling down swim meet information onto my daughter’s arm — but finding a second use justifies the expense of fancy markers when a plain ol’ Sharpie would’ve done the job. 

At that point, I hadn’t yet finished the book, so it would’ve felt dishonest to write the final agreement. However, I’ve been reflecting constantly on these seemingly simple instructions, and I’m finding that the application of them in my life is a full-time job and then some. It really is a lifestyle change — in thoughts, in deeds, and in how I communicate with myself and the outer world. The constant vigilance required to observe and manage my thoughts requires a lot of energy, and it might be why I find myself needing a nap in the middle of the day.

According to the book, impeccability means “without sin.” It stems from the Latin pecatus, meaning “sin.” There is a religious bend here, because if you look up the definition of impeccability, you’ll find that Christianity and the impeccability of Christ comes up — but as a former Catholic and Sunday School drop-out, I can’t speak to this. But the author defines sin as anything that you do, feel, say or believe that goes against yourself. This means judging and blaming yourself for anything, with self-rejection is the greatest sin; but also includes the more mundane yet poisonous emotions of anger, jealousy, envy, and hate. Thus, in making this agreement of being impeccable, you intend to use your word (word being the force of creation, a tool of magic) in a way that is sinless and “in the direction of truth and love.”

One result is I am speaking a whole lot less than I used to. I am practically mute these days. Because when I skip out on gossiping, blaming, cursing and offering my opinion when unsolicited, I find that I don’t have a lot to say. Sure, there’s the low hanging fruit to avoid, like complaining about uncooperative weather, inconsiderate neighbors, or infuriating Trumpers. But I think this “impeccability” exists beyond griping about stuff I can’t do anything about.

There’s the seemingly innocuous retelling of information to a third party, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? It’s gossiping, and gossip is “the worst form of black magic,” and all black magic spread emotional poison. Yet, “gossiping has become the main form of communication in human society.” Say a friend tells me, at a chance encounter in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, that her marriage is falling apart and she’s been shacking up with her CrossFit instructor. Without this agreement, I would most likely (read: 100%) tell my husband about it; and possibly, unless I were given explicit instructions to keep it secret, I might even share it with another friend.

But now, mum’s the word. Bo-ring!

To be honest, I almost never get shared this kind of juicy gossip. Maybe it’s because my crew of friends are gentle souls, or everyone has already figured out that I’m a blabbermouth. But there’s plenty of banal, inconsequential things to remark on, judgments to be made, opinions to be foisted — all for the sake of conversation. So, whenever I catch wind of something remotely interesting, I ask myself, “Would passing it on be black magic?” (Yes, I ask myself this exact question.) If I evaluate the effect to be a net neutral or net negative, then I keep my lips zipped.

Another significant situation where I am saying a whole lot less is at home with my daughter. Let’s just say, there are things that I would like for her to do that don’t seem to come naturally or instinctively, like picking laundry off the floor, eating faster than a snail’s pace, or applying conditioner after rinsing off the shampoo. I would normally resort to nagging, “Why don’t you do so-and-so, you know that you have to blah-and-blah, so hurry it up already because we’re gonna be late!” At least for now, in this mindfulness phase — and I’ll say phase, because it’s too early to be called a habit or way of life — I keep my instructions to a minimum followed by an earnest or deadpan expression, depending on how frustrated I’m feeling.

It crossed my mind that if I were ever serious about tattooing this agreement onto my arm, but wanted to save myself some pain, I could sum it up in four letters: STFU. Thankfully, I have a higher pain threshold than that.

I haven’t even addressed how “being impeccable with your words” informs the things that I tell myself. If I am serene on the outside, it could be that I am so engrossed in my internal dialogue, monitoring the conflicting voices arguing for dominance. I plan to address that in a separate entry, or even devote the rest of the blog to it, because it’s the words and stories that I tell myself that create my reality and my future. I’m still trying to figure out what I want — or maybe I already know deep down, and I just need to cultivate the strength and fortitude to claim it, one beautiful word at a time.

As I continue on my journey, I’m sure I’ll come across other perspectives that will move me to grab that marker and jot down the next piece of course-altering wisdom to keep at forefront of my mind. While this book promotes the Toltec traditions, I am also drawn to Buddhist and Stoic philosophies — at least according to my YouTube feed. The inner world is vast; there is so much to explore. And though the ink eventually fades, the truths that resonates the most will leave an indelible impression on the roadmap of my life.

It seems premature to write about something that I haven’t finished reading or without fully understanding it, but that hasn’t stopped me before, so why should it now? The other day I picked out “The Four Agreements”, by Don Miguel Ruiz, from our bookshelf. Which, after several rounds of decluttering, only has a handful of books. Literally, with the exception of six art books and the series, “Reef and Fish Identification of Florida, Bahamas and the Caribbean”, that Ken insisted on keeping, you can hold the remaining books that might be read for fun in one hand. A few of the books that have made the cut(s) are Lord of the Flies and The Catcher in the Rye, both belonging to Ken, and the only David Sedaris book I own, When You’re Engulfed in Flames. (However, I always have an electronic copy or an audio version of his other books on loan from the public library.)

I don’t exactly know where The Four Agreements came from or who it belongs to, but if I had to guess…

I had once enrolled in a Health Coach Training Program a million years ago (read: at least twenty) when I still lived in NYC. The seminars took place in a huge auditorium at Columbus Circle, held over several weekends spread over the course of a year and costed several thousand dollars. It was meant to be the path for a new career, a new life. Each of those weekends, students were distributed a red, reusable shopping bag filled to the brim with nutrition and wellness books and the occasional cooking implement. But because I wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready for it, I attended the first few sessions feeling completely fraudulent and out of place, and then I stopped attending altogether. I would pick up the bags but not attend the seminar, promising myself to read them on my own when I was ready. I carted those books from apartment to apartment, year to year, with nary a glance. When I moved in with Ken, the bulkiest of those books were relegated to the attic of my parents’ home, and they were obliged to deal with them when they downsized to a small studio in a coop.

I suspect the book may have been from one of those red-bag hauls. Distilled from the dozens, if not hundreds, that came along with it, it stands as the lone survivor from that bygone era (save for a red silicone spatula that I use to this day.) I vaguely remember reading it once but have no distinct recollection, and there isn’t any trace of wear. I don’t necessarily feel sentimental about it, so how did it remain in our possession for so long? I relinquished half of my bread book collection, the majority of my language books, and a library of training for climbing manuals. Those books were tied to my identity — or, my fantasy self — and I held on to them fervently until I came to the realization that I am not my books. They also took up a lot of space and so I put them on the chopping block. Now I marvel at the empty space, keenly aware that I am as close to being a master baker/polyglot/Alex Honnold without the books as I was with them. (That is, not close at all.)

So, perhaps what may have saved The Four Agreements from ruthless elimination was its diminutive size, a slim, pretty paperback with an earthy green spine; and that it associated itself with the few other notably thin volumes that Ken held on to for decades. It might be crazy to think that a book would conspire to save itself, but I don’t know. Maybe the book was holding on to me until I was ready to come back to it to receive its message? 

Or vice versa?

I settled into the big yellow armchair in my daughter’s room with The Four Agreements. It has become our routine to read quietly before her bedtime. I’d become accustomed to reading ebooks on my phone but I find myself wanting to hold an actual book, to increasingly part with this electronic device that is practically sewn into my hand. And because I’m overdue on a visit to the library, I didn’t have much in the way of options unless I wanted to sink my teeth into my daughter’s Harry Potter collection. As I read the introduction, I experienced a sense of déjà vu, the feeling of being puzzled by the cryptic prose. Three thousand years ago, a man realizes that everything in existence is a manifestation of one living being that is God, that human perception is a light perceiving light, and that everyone is a mirror surrounded by a wall of fog.

What in the? I groaned. I still don’t know what the hell is going on.

Hesitantly, I continued on to the first chapter, hoping that it makes more sense.

      ”Chapter 1: Domestication and the Dream of The Planet. — What you are seeing and hearing           right nothing but a dream. You are dreaming right now in this moment. You are dreaming with the       brain awake…”

I imagine myself fifteen, twenty years ago, eyes sweeping over these words quickly, reading without comprehending. In that way, I could’ve finished the book in less than an hour and moved on with my life without it ever leaving an impression — except that I kept the book all this time. And in the strangest, almost mystical way, it feels like I was meant to read it at this exact moment. Something in my heart tells me to read the words slowly, and slower still, and to absorb as much as I can.

I’m struggling to summarize or paraphrase what I’ve read so far because I don’t want to do it a disservice. The prose and vocabulary are simple enough, but the concepts are so confounding, so challenging to how I’ve lived my life so far. I’ve taken for granted that we, as humans, come into this world and are immediately influenced by our family, our environment, and our circumstances. We don’t choose our parents or our native language, those are predetermined for us. And we are taught to believe what our families and the larger society that encompasses us believe, until at some point we have enough agency to assert a different opinion. (While you’re living under my roof, you do what I say or else!)

But the book elaborates on just how these beliefs are encoded within us until they become our own, into our personal Book of Law, the standards which we would forever measure our life against.

     “As children, we didn’t have the opportunity to choose our beliefs, but we agreed with the information passed to us from the dream of the planet via other humans. The only way to store information is by agreement.”

It is in our agreements that each of these beliefs are written into our minds and hearts, and as long as those agreements hold, we will punish or reward ourselves and others accordingly, trying to live up to them. This is how we are domesticated, and in creating an image of perfection of what it means to be good enough, we reject ourselves constantly for not being able to live up to it.

These words may not speak to everyone. But as someone who has experienced childhood trauma, addictions and depression, and in general struggles everyday with the feelings of not being good enough — these words speak to me. Or, at least they do now. Maybe because I’ve pulled my head above water to grasp at a breath, that I can recognize that I’ve been drowning this whole time. 

The words make sense in a way that they couldn’t have before, back when I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t have been ready, because back then, they were just words on a page. They didn’t stop me in my tracks, beg to be read over and over, and implore me to take responsibility for all the things I have agreed to that are making me miserable. But maybe, just maybe, I hoped that one day I would be.

And I think that’s why this book is a survivor. Just like me.

The alarm rang at 5AM this morning. I blinked for a few moments, gathering consciousness, and got up. I’ve been listening to the audiobook version of “5AM Club”, and to poorly sum up what I’ve heard so far, is the importance of getting up early and aligning your morning to set up success for the rest of your day and your life. “Own your morning, elevate your life” is the mantra that is repeated. I may not be catching the finer points, especially when I’m listening to it while in the kitchen, cooking, and then Vi decides to ask me burning questions like — what are we doing tomorrow? Will it be cold? Which Hogwarts house would you want to be in (for the umpteenth time)?

The book is written rather uniquely for a self-help/motivation book, told as a fictional narrative — between an entrepreneur, an artist, their eccentric billionaire mentor and, occasionally, the “spellbinder”, who is the billionaire’s mentor. There are a lot of quotes thrown around, and the portrayal of the burgeoning love story between the uptight entrepreneur and the artist with dreadlocks and “mango-sized man boobs” is laughably cringey at times, but there are undeniable nuggets of wisdom there, even if it has taken me forty-five years to recognize them as such.

I’ve been a night owl for as long as I can remember. Going to bed early has never appealed to me, and I have never made getting eight hours of sleep a priority, so I suspect that I’ve been in a sleep-deprived state for most of my life. It must run in the family. My mother was an ER nurse who worked 12-hr night shifts, and she always took overtime. My grandmother raised 12 kids, so I would bet she didn’t getting any sleep for at least forty years. In the last decade, I equated nighttime with “me-time”, when everyone was tucked in bed, and I could luxuriate in studying the foreign language I was currently obsessing over, binge on dramas (in said foreign language), shop online — whatever, until either I started nodding off or my conscience told me to go to bed. This would often be around 1AM to 3AM, and if it was school day the next morning, I’d have to get up by 6AM. Then I would proceed with the day in a perpetual state of zombie-ness that I have long accepted to be normal. 

If I had spent those precious hours working on the Great American novel (or in my case, the Great 3/4 Filipino- 1/4 Chinese- American novel), or writing anything of consequence, then I think it would have been time well spent. But because I was avidly, stubbornly avoiding writing most of the time, I distracted myself with easier targets. Like learning Japanese. After a couple of years of half-assed studying, I signed up for the JLPT exam (Japanese Language Proficiency Test) and devoted a full six months to nothing but cramming audio lessons every moment of the day and poring over notes at night. In the end, I have my JLPT N5 certificate (N5 being the easiest level, probably achievable for anyone with 3 months of learning) and a shelf full of Japanese language books. What I don’t have are any solid plans to go to Japan, any friends to speak Japanese with, and any motivation to continue.

So what the hell was it all for, anyway?

I won’t say it was a total waste, because learning for the sake of learning — how is that anything but awesome? Studying Japanese was a challenge I undertook because I knew it would be difficult, and I got tremendous satisfaction from conquering my perceived limitations, like, thinking I would never get past the first levels of Duolingo. Japanese has TWO alphabets in addition to kanji, which are Chinese characters (a whole ball of wax on their own), all of which can be used in ONE sentence!  I probably could’ve become fluent in French by the time I learned how to say and write “Please give me two rice balls and a Coke.” in Japanese. (If you’re curious, that’s おにぎり2個とコーラをください。/onigiri ni-ko to koora wo kudasai.)

While I can rationalize the many late hours spent watching foreign dramas as a means of “studying”, I can’t defend online shopping as having any intrinsic value, although it often felt so important and imperative. I didn’t recognize it for what it was, a drug that provided a rush of adrenaline and dopamine, that would leave me both wired and spent. More socially acceptable than cocaine but just as addictive. At 3AM I would crawl into bed, my mind buzzing with thoughts of features, price comparisons, potential savings, and future buyer’s remorse, so much that I would lie awake for another hour. The drug was potent enough substitute to keep me from missing alcohol. I’m five years sober now, but I am still struggling every day to beat my shopping addiction.

But something triggered a change in me, or something made me want to change. The desire to get up early — and by extension, the complementary desire to go to bed at a reasonable time (gasp!) — seemed to flow naturally from my current decluttering and minimalism obsession. Getting rid of physical clutter is a big component, but evaluating mental and emotional clutter is important, too. If my goal is to strip away the excess and the distractions to reveal what is essential and truly important, then how can I argue for the activities that fritter away precious time for no good purpose? I had quit drinking because I decided to honor my life and set a positive example for my daughter, but there are other ways that I’ve been pacifying and numbing myself that I became obliged to recognize. 

It’s only been a few months, but a new normal is shifting into place. I find myself longing to be up before the sun, to wake before anyone else. I step onto the balcony to breathe in crisp, cool air, and enjoy the sight of a La Jolla Boulevard devoid of traffic. I listen for the uneven clickety-clack of crutches and a walking boot hitting the pavement, a sign that the resident “crazy lady” of our condo is pacing the sidewalk at 5:20AM. Besides our mutual affinity for Goodwill — albeit she likes to hoard stuff and pile them on her patio in fire-hazardous fashion —  I like that we also have this time in common.

So, to ensure that I can get up regularly, I decided that I would have to make myself go to bed around 10PM. No more late night study sessions, bingeing on dramas or online shopping marathons. Never in a million years would I have thought it would come to that, but then again, I’ve also started doing things that I have previously sworn off. Meditating. Yoga. Running. Walking. Writing. 

And perhaps, most importantly, sleeping.

For the last two months, I’ve been making a very concentrated, heartfelt effort to declutter and find my purpose. On the surface, it seems like decluttering is the purpose. I am constantly roving about our home with a critical eye, asking myself “Do I really need that? Can I give it away?” I’ve made at least seven trips to Goodwill in this span of time, and I have designated section in our living area for collecting items for the next trip.

The latest haul to Goodwill included a wool, double-breasted brown J.Crew pea coat that I hadn’t worn in at least a decade. It was vital part of my East Coast wardrobe, but it just doesn’t jibe with the SoCal weather. My most distinct and sentimental memory of it is wearing it on our first trip together, to San Francisco for my thirtieth birthday. I had already learned the hard way, eight years before that trip, that San Francisco is not part of Southern California, and that I’d better pack warm. There is a picture of us by some stretch of beach where I am wearing the pea coat and a page boy hat that belongs to my future husband. We had only been dating for four months at that point, but while we certainly weren’t talking about marriage, there was definitely love. And so, I had kept the pea coat all this time because it reminded me of that trip and the start of our adventures together, but there it was, stagnant in the closet of my daughter’s bedroom, while we continued to live our lives and grow as a family.

“It doesn’t fit anymore,” Ken observed as I recently tried it on. “Your shoulders are too broad now.” 

What I’ve been learning lately, however, is that all our belongings exert a force on us. Sure, we need X amount to live — even if that X amount is different for each of us — but in truth, we have many times more than we need. The difference between what we have and what we need is clutter. We can broaden the definition of “what we need” to the things we use and love, but again, if we are honest with ourselves, how much do we have in excess of that new definition?

When it comes to sentimental items, what I am slowly coming to terms with that the love and the memories aren’t stored in the stuff itself. At best, it can represent a special person or a moment in time, but how much good does it do when it is stashed in a closet, in a box, or in a storage unit? I wouldn’t have counted the pea coat as a sentimental item, but there’s no other explanation for keeping a coat for ten years without any intention of wearing it. Why else would I hesitate to let it go?

What I have become fixated on, is the idea that clutter can keep us from realizing our potential, from finding our purpose. The force our belongings exert on us, while invisible, may be powerful enough to hold our attention and distract us from what might truly matter to us. For me, this could apply to sentimental items as well the more mundane, like the 8-pack of 150-ct floss picks that I purchased through Amazon, about three years worth, sitting in my closet. It might be absurd to think that these items, along with our packed storage unit, are somehow preventing me from finding my raison d’être, but considering that I have been struggling to find one for most of my life, I’m open to suggestions.

I’ll deal with the floss picks later, but for now I decided to pull out a second pea coat from my daughter’s closet. This time it’s a woven, single-breasted red Ann Taylor pea coat that I used as a dressier counterpart to the aforementioned brown one. The most important, and honestly, the only memory I have of wearing this coat is on the night that Ken proposed. There is a framed picture of us together, taken in front of Lincoln Center by a passerby just moments after it happened. The camera flash reflected off the snowflakes that had just begun to fall, and my face was flushed from the cold and crying happy tears. I removed the coat from its protective bag and hanger, and tried it on.

”You look so funny!” Vi exclaimed.

Indeed, if the brown pea coat had barely fit, then I positively channeled Chris Farley in Tommy Boy (“Fat guy in a little coat!”) as I donned the red coat over my pajamas. The coat belonged to a different time and, most clearly, to a different person — a stick-figure of a person that shopped at Ann Taylor, that got gussied up to go with her boyfriend to a fancy restaurant for a multi-course dinner with wine pairing, and then to Lincoln Center to watch a famous Italian opera. I slid my hands down the length of the coat and felt something in the right pocket. I pulled out two, individually wrapped macaroons. They were encased in clear cellophane sealed with a sticker that had the logo of Telepan Restaurant, where we had eaten at the night we got engaged. I marveled, not without gratitude, that the desiccated cookies were otherwise intact and had managed to not attract any vermin over the years.

Vi looked at me with wide eyes and hopeful wonder. 

“Can I eat them?”

“No, Vi.”

”Are they expired?”

”Vi, they‘re at least 13 years old.”

Pause. “So, you mean to say, that they’re expired…?” Her face fell.

”Yes, Vi. They’re expired. And no, you can’t eat them.”

I snapped a picture of the macaroons before discarding them, and went to tell Ken, who was already in bed. He murmured in his half-sleep, “They’re at least 15 years old.” True, we had gotten engaged two years before we got married.

In truth, I don’t remember most of the details of that night. The date itself, what we ate, the opera we saw — none of it. What I am sure of is that I finished every drop of the wines poured during our fancy meal and the bourbon cocktail that preceded them, most likely a Boulevardier or a Manhattan. We walked to Lincoln Center from the restaurant, sat in our seats, and I promptly slept from the beginning of Act I until minutes before the end of Act III. I woke up, refreshed from a long and expensive nap, to see Ken’s amused face smiling at me. Then I watched the final moments of a splendid performance that I had zero percent chance of understanding or appreciating so late in the game.

The cold, crisp air was sobering as we filed out of the theater after the performance. I remember us lingering around the fountain, as it seemed that Ken had wanted to take pictures. Normally, this iconic fountain is cycling through its water show, and with Lincoln Center in the backdrop, it provides a quintessential scene of artsy sophistication in the most fascinating city in the world. (Not to mention, a scene from the original Ghostbusters was filmed there.) But the fountain was dark and quiet at the end of the night, and the lights of the Lincoln Center had also dimmed. The crowd had mostly dissipated while we remained curiously standing in the middle of the plaza. Then Ken seemed to want to retrieve something from the bag on his lap. Quick to help, I reached into the bag for him, oblivious to the fact that he had wanted to do it himself, when my fingers wrapped around the dimensions of a small box. 

Of the entire night, this is what is etched in my heart. Thoughts of past and future collided into that one present, defining moment that would make official our commitment to each other. I’m not sure why it had taken me by surprise — we had shopped for engagement rings, after all — but it did. This is it, I thought to myself, tears welling up in surrender to the magic of the moment. So engulfed was I in a rush of emotions that I could barely make out what he was actually saying to me, but we would have the rest of our lives to figure it out together.

“Can I try it on?” Vi asked.

I removed the pea coat and handed it to her. She slid her arms in and shrugged it on. The pea coat swept the floor like a wedding train, dwarfing her nine year old frame.

“Oh no, no, definitely not,” she laughed, and immediately shrugged it off. 

And with that, I folded the pea coat carefully for the last time and placed it in a bag designated for the next Goodwill drop-off. I felt like it had been worth it to save the coat until just now, when I could create a new memory with my daughter, about the time we found 15 year old, petrified macaroons in the pocket of a pea coat from a previous life. The love that had been present back then is still so very much alive, growing and evolving in complexity and depth.

While I am grateful that the pea coat served its purpose of reminding me how special that moment was, letting it go helps me to appreciate the person that I have become — a wife, a mother, sober and strong — and to create space for the unfolding of a beautifully unknown future.

I finally did it. My goal for March was to register my domain name, something I’d been procrastinating officially for a month, unofficially for years. The financial layout was insignificant, about $35 for the first year, but money isn’t the main concern. I was and am dealing with the discomfort of allowing myself to be seen. Not that I would necessarily try to attract attention, and it’s entirely feasible that no one would see my site if I don’t promote it. 

I have created at least one blog before, and I don’t think I was nearly so hard on myself then. I don’t remember questioning the right for the blog to exist. I was excited to make it and so I did just that. My passion back then was baking, and every moment that I wasn’t working in the hospital revolved around it. But in hindsight, I wonder if I had used baking to create momentum for what I’ve always wanted in my heart to do, which is to write. Not that I hid behind baking, but it became the validation for my writing to exist out in the world. I’m not sure exactly why I petered out, quitting after a few months, just like I tended to do with any writing endeavor. Maybe I was just trying to do too much back then, but equally likely is that I started to feel exposed and decided it was best to crawl back into my shell. 

When I come back to read those entries, I actually think I was a much better writer back then. I am afraid that I may have peaked, and now am only capable of writing substandard drivel. Another fear is that I have missed the opportunities to create my most impactful writing, as if nothing so substantial as being a wayward alcoholic, having a preemie, dealing with postpartum depression and PTSD, or becoming sober will ever happen to me again. There is also the pervasive fear that I don’t really have anything to say, at least nothing that anyone else would deem interesting or noteworthy. What would really bother me then, is why do I have this aching, persistent desire to write if I wasn’t meant to do it? Or really, wasn’t mean to be good at it?

If I kept at it, I’m sure I could mine a treasure trove of fears and insecurities around writing that could fill a book. I could title the book “A Million Reasons Why I Can’t Write”. The irony of writing a book about why I can’t write isn’t lost on me, but it would be the kind of irony I can live for.

Until I write that book, and maybe even long past it, I will be here, struggling to be true to my heart even though it’s scary to do so.

Because it is scary to do so.