WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Who do you think you are?

Honestly.

I've been thinking about this question, and if I had to answer, I'd probably rattle off several things that have been said about me. True or not, these are the repeating motifs in our lives, and they can become who we are if we aren't careful--and if we aren't honest--and if we aren't truly owning our stories. I used to think my memory was bad. I used to assume I only remembered the bad stuff and the rough times and assumed that's all there was. I assumed that's all I was. I had it in my head that the positive stuff wasn't as important because it didn't seem to affect me as much. Truth is, it just hurt more so it wound up sticking with me in a more profound way.

Combine that with a crippling need to overcompensate for my lack of 'worthiness' and feel superior (by being the noblest victim ever)  and you get a recipe for...well...a recipe for a fairly boring existence. Here's the schwing, when you take time not just to paint your life in the colors that serve your ego best, but with the colors of honesty, you get a fuller more authentic picture of who you are. You get to take into account every triumph and face-fall, you get to remember the pedestrian, the seemingly inconsequential, beautiful moments that make up a fully realized human life. You stop casting yourself in the roles people have cast you in, and you begin creating the you that you want to be.

It's easy for me to start thinking about all my mistakes, heaping shame and guilt onto myself, having a personal woe-is-me fest, and then making a concerted effort to deny all the good in my life. We trip over potholes and shut down the whole road. EVEN WHEN THAT ROAD HAS AN IN N' OUT BURGER! I don't want to be so afraid of tripping again that I refuse myself that double double with animal style fries. Look, it isn't a perfect analogy, but I am getting hungry...

We have an entire walk-in closet of experiences, so why do we keep wearing the same thing every day? For me, it's often because those clothes fit and I don't want to take the time to break in a new pair of jeans (despite how great my butt looks in them.) I'm noticing more and more though, that if I take time to look at my extensive wardrobe, I discover outfits I never even knew I had. Or better yet, outfits I forgot I had. Far from being a life characterized solely by doom, gloom, and struggle, mine becomes a complexly, full journey of amazing humanness. I bet you anything that yours is as well.

So who do you think you are?

Cuz me? I think I'm whatever I want to be.

"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"

Love you!

-Dak

Mason

Dear Universe,

Holy nuts, you work in mysterious and interesting ways. Last night you sent a ferociously drunk guy to my front door who proceeded to stand there on the steps and talk in circles about his night. "Are you gonna' turn me away too?" he said. "Well...yeah, because it's 2 in the morning and you're freaking me out." "Yeah, I thought so." "Okay yeah, so I'm gonna' shut the door now." which I did. And locked it. When he continued to stare into the front window, my roommate and I called the cops. I guess in retaliation he decided to bust a window and book it. Thankfully, he got apprehended. My buddy and I are rattled, but okay.

Today, another guy comes to the door. I had to admit, I was a little wary at first. He sported long hair, a massive healthy beard (his Russian ancestry, I later find out) and glasses. Initially, he came to inquire about a friend's car, which has been sitting in our driveway out back. The chat about the car turns into several hours of us sitting on the front stoop and talking about life.

I find out that Mason was in jail in northern Idaho for five years on an aggravated assault charge (someone had broken into his house, and threatened him with a knife. He chased the guy out, and when the police arrived they tazed Mason and took him to jail.) While he was incarcerated, he was cut off from his entire world. The pain medication he was taking from a sawmill accident that landed him in a coma was cut off with little explanation. Friends of his that tried to visit were turned away or told he wasn't there. He barely received any mail that was sent his way (and when he did, it was postmarked three weeks prior and blacked out, like he was a political prisoner.) No television. No books. The best he could do was purchase a subscription to the Spokesman Review--the only thing that kept him sane. The city had brushed him under the rug, his trial date kept getting pushed further and further back--with very little hope for justice.

(I forgot to mention that the break-in that spiraled into his jail time came not 24 hours after he was released from the hospital to recover from a car accident that seriously injured him and took the life of one of his dogs.)

In any event, Mason told me about the five years he served. He told me about how his 6(!!) siblings have passed away, some from natural causes, one from suicide, and one from police brutality. He told me about how he worked as a machinist, fixed cars and motorcycles, bred dogs and horses, and has a degree in large mammal dentistry. He told me about his grandparents, still going strong into their 90s. He told me about growing up in Birmingham Alabama in the 70s. He told me about his incredible ups and devastating downs. He told me that the same day he considered just giving up on it all, he received a letter from his daughter that completely turned everything around for him. After chatting a while, he parted with a firm handshake and some very kind words.

So, Universe, I guess I'm trying to say I'm grateful. I'm grateful that the day after some Ridiculous Bullshit(tm) pops through, you allowed my path to cross with someone who is an example of absolute and incredible resilience. Resilience in the face of impossible odds and staggering unfairness. A person who was given the rawest of deals, who's struggling still, but has not and will not give up.

Thanks for the lesson. If we meet again, I'm buying him a beer.

Love you all!

Dakotah

Draculas

I watched this fantastic Stephen Fry documentary yesterday, and it got me thinkin' in my head and heartparts about some of the feelings I've been grappling with for the past year or so. Now I don't know if I'm on the bipolar scale at all, though that might be a trick of the ego--determined to save itself by declaring that admission 'a weakness' and distancing myself from it. I think my low points have more to do with being fairly lonely in the fishbowl that is this city, not having seen my family in about two years(!!?) and being hilariously broke most of the time. Like...gathering my change and deciding on laundry or eating broke. Like...having to choose which bill to pay broke. Like...trying not to jump out of my skin when folks invite me for dinner because HOLY CRAP A HOT MEAL broke. To be fair, I can now publish a cookbook entitled "The Resourceful Chef: Whipping up deliciousness with the random shit you find in your pantry."

Anyhoo, in the course of the aforementioned documentary, there was a quote that really jumped out at me.

"The opposite of depression isn't happiness, it's vitality."

Um...yep! Depression is a Dracula. Feeling how I generally do now hasn't stopped me from accessing happiness at all, it's just made a lot of things feel INCREDIBLY difficult to summon up the energy for. Creativity? What's the use! Of course I could write that play I have a zillion ideas for (what if schizophrenia was actually the result of parallel universes exhorting their influence on people who had a special sensitivity to 'quantum consciousness'?) And sure, I COULD put some hours into working on my game (it's 10 hours strong already, and I'm about to hit that part of the RPG where you finally get a vehicle--in this case an enchanted hunk of rock called the 'S.S. Partytime') and sure, I COULD write that song I've been thinking about (a snarky anti-ode to the contemporarily hip manic-pixie-dream-girl idea) but none of those things feel engaging to me. Rather--they feel like they wouldn't accomplish anything. Self-expression? Why? I can't pay rent with self-expression. Frankly, I believe this to be another sophisticated trick of the ego. "Why the fuck would anyone care about your art? You're just some douchebag with some geeky ideas, bro. You can talk mad game about it all, but what do you have to show for it? Until strangers are fawning over your brilliance, which by the way--you don't truly believe you possess, who the hell are YOU to deserve anything?" Um...in actuality, I've written several plays, short stories, poems, comics, and a novel...and I'm making a videogame--but those don't FEEL like 'work'. Why? Because Draculas can hypnotize. Draculas can dangle an expectation in your face like a carrot, and beat you with the stick of self-loathing for not achieving an impossible goal. And they can turn into bats, I guess.

So what's helped? I mean, I'm all about realizations, but it's only helpful to me if I can also reach a new understanding. Otherwise it's kinda' like...welp, this sucks! So, okay, anyhoo--honestly for me, being able to characterize these internal Draculas helps me externalize these thoughts I've considered 'reality' for so long. "MAN I SUCK AT EVERYTHING." becomes "Man, the Draculas are telling me I suck at everything(IRONIC, HAHAHAHA BECAUSE-)" and then relax back into my authentic self. Separating your feelings from your identity is critical--because how you feel about yourself isn't who you are. You are a complex miracle of a human being, and if you stopped to truly consider every single facet of what makes you you, you'd be staggered and amazed. You are enough. In this very moment, no bells and whistles, you are worthy. The Draculas have their own intentions, so understand what those are and meet them face to face. Shed a little sunlight on their pale skin and see them for what they really are.

Cuz it turns out, they're nothing but dust.

Love y'all!

Dak

Coming to a Head (don't be gross)

I'm wrapping up some of the toughest months of my life within the next few weeks--what with the touring shows starting again (I'm playing Romeo in...whatever that play is called..) Leading up to now--or as it's felt--surviving up to now has been a ridiculous journey of ups and downs. I've been in debt to just about every person and institution I know, I've slogged through many a production where the natural afterglow waned in nearly an instant, I've paralyzed myself with patterns (maybe I'll play another hour of videogames, the dishes can wait), and throughout all of it--I've tried like hell to grab hold of some kind of ledge and pull myself up. For all my writings, all my hours upon hours in coffee shops when I can scrape enough change together to buy myself some peace and a dim corner, I've taken a handful of steps forward--and a buttload of steps back.

Actually, let me go back and correct the first sentence of this whole thing. Financially, I'll be fairly stable again come the next few weeks. The psychological and emotional toll of the past little while, however, has been pretty severe. I'm exhausted. I'm essentially out of love with myself. I'm sluggish. I'm sensitive. My faith and trust is all but dust. My fear is at an all-time high. I'm running out of ways to cope. Self-hatred just becomes a spiral. Positivity for me is a fragile glass pedestal that shatters in the stiff wind of strife. Ugh. Even that description makes my skin crawl. More self-resentment. In addition, I've been afraid to reach out. I don't like anyone seeing me this way. It makes me feel as though I'm an adolescent again--a vortex of thoughts and emotions, deeply hurt and passing it off as tired.

Now I'm too tired to pretend I'm just tired.

What the eff is at the center of all of this? Where did this come from? Why, after so much digging and soul-searching--after notebooks and journals full of scribbles of varying intensity--do I seem to come right back to zero? I'll give you a hint--the word starts with 'E'. More after this interlude THAT YOU SHOULD WATCH, THIS WOMAN IS INCREDIBLE.




Whew. MAN she rocks hard.

Okay, so we're back. Didja' guess the 'E' word?

Expectations.

We are, each of us, incredibly special human beings (no disrespect to the feline blogger community) and some people take that as intrinsic knowledge. I come from a family of wildly creative, brave, brilliant individuals who saw the same spark residing in me. When they told me, however, I didn't take that to mean I could do anything I put my mind to. I didn't take my specialness to mean I would become some kind of famous so-and-so. I took it to mean I had a responsibility to BE those things. I had no choice but to come into my own and step into my place among them. I was burdened with the foreknowledge that nothing that I could accomplish until I was moving mountains was good enough because I had yet to move a single mountain. Every accomplishment that lead to whatever the future holds was naturally a matter of course--so it didn't matter. Missteps weren't simply stepping stones along a never-ending-while-I'm-alive-and-kicking journey, they were grand failures to live up to the world's expectation of me. I felt smothered by the weight of an infinite number of fractured future Dakotahs, shaking their heads and winking out of existence as I failed another math test, or made a goofy acting choice, or moved to Idaho, or had to call my landlord for a rent extension, or had a disastrously failed relationship, or let anybody down in any fashion. This isn't new, either. I used to draw exclusively in ink, and would throw away entire sheets of paper if I botched a miniscule line somewhere (sorry environment.) In second grade I drew a watercolor drawing of a knight in armor, then scribbled over the entire page because even at that age, I wasn't impressing myself enough. Even now I often hesitate to think of my own future because it doesn't feel like its in my hands. No, my life feels forfeit. My future is being played by something more powerful than me, and I'm running out of extra lives.

The scariest part of it all is the question I almost never dare ask myself. If I give up the expectations, what do I have left? Is the only way I motivate myself based on this ravenous clinging to the ideal that I have to be SOMETHING special? ...That if I'm not in History books somehow, I've wasted my entire life? If my aim isn't on the moon, will I even leave my hammock?

Honestly, I think a Disney princess says it best.

So sue me, there's no song called "Fuck It" in the Disney canon. 

Here's the deal--trying to chase down this mysterious goal that I don't even know the shape of is impossible. It really is. All it actually provides is a way for me to hate myself for the rest of my life. All it provided was a way for me to feel safe when I felt most alone or terrified. I could cling to this notion like a security blanket and KNOW that nothing could happen to me because somewhere in the future there's supposed to be a book written about something I did one time I guess. I could insta-jump to the assumption that I was a significant thing on this planet instead of letting go of the fear that I might not be. And...sheesh...come on. I might not be? WE ALREADY ALL ARE.

It's time to Disney Princess the shit out of these expectations. The only mission we've got in life is to live HERE and NOW as hugely and honestly as we can. Whatever the hell that means for whoever the hell you are. Like your likes! Live your life! Don't worry about history, it'll take care of itself.

Whew. Goddamn. Thanks for sticking around. You're awesome and I would high-five and hug you so hard.

Love,
Dak (the cold never bothered me anyway)

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