Lex Chase's Blog, page 3

What Bipolar Disorder Is Like To Me

Greetings once again, my Dandelions, and welcome back. When I started this blogging journey about living with bipolar disorder, I honestly didn’t expect I’d stick with it. Which is strange because of how much I pride myself on helping others and being a strong advocate for mental health.

I would say to myself “Who the hell would listen to an asexual bipolar chick? What do I have to offer anyone?” A lot, apparently. And you, my Dandelions, are listening.

I cannot express my gratitude enough and I hope you accept my humble words from one who has problems with getting from Point A to B without taking a detour through Points Q, L, and D first.

So, today’s topic is one my therapist asked me to do.

What bipolar disorder is like to me.

My therapist told me, he can observe it, understand it academically, and can learn all about it in seminars, but what is it like for me. For someone who actually lives with it?

In my first post in this series called “I Am Not Ashamed,” I talked about my diagnosis at age 13. I was scant on the details of what happened next.

This is what happened next.

I wish I could shout from the rooftops “Hooray! I’m cured!” but that’s not how bipolar disorder works. There is no cure. There’s only managing your symptoms and how you define your successes. (Admittedly, I learned that last bit from my therapist.)

In other words, it’s working with what you’ve got.

As the years went by from my horrific teen years, and one abusive relationship later, the meds got evened out, and things leveled off. I was in college, and things were going well.

Still, let’s back up and define “well.”

The anxiety attacks were still a thing, feelings of self-worth frequently came into question, depression was still prevalent, but there were also the bright, brilliant highs of mania. And mania is not necessarily a good thing. Well. It’s not a good thing at all really.

But I learned my mode of operation was called “rapid cycling.” Where I experience all of these things in a single day and even within hours of each other. It terrifies my mother actually, where I can be screaming with anger one moment and then cracking jokes five minutes later.

This is my normal. Others may consider it a curse. But honestly, I don’t know any different.

So, I graduated with my first degree in Graphic Design and decided I wanted to go off for my BFA in Sequential Art. I got accepted into the prestigious Savannah College of Art and Design, and I was pumped. This was the moment that all of the heartache and struggles would come together. This is when it would be all worth it.

When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to draw comics when I discovered I was quite proficient at it. But I always had the frame of mind, no matter how good you are, there’s someone better than you and you have to be better. I wish I could break myself of this line of thinking. It still comes up once in a while. Just this evening, I saw some beautiful comic pages, and joked about setting my tablet on fire. It was a joke. But that split-second feeling of doubt was there.

So off to SCAD I went.

Where I soon discovered I was way out of my depth.

It was the first time I was not only truly on my own, but also out-of-state where “Mommy and Daddy” couldn’t save me this time. I had to succeed or fail on my own merit. I had no choice but to make it work and make it work my way.

I also realized that this was the time I could reinvent myself. I was no longer the girl from the small town of Pensacola, Florida. For all my classmates knew, Pensacola could have been something tropical and exotic with palm trees and coconuts. It isn’t. We have a beach though. Sugar white sand and all.

My classmates didn’t have to know I had been in an abusive relationship that lasted 10 years, where in Pensacola, the chances of running into someone who knew was a guarantee.

And no one, no one, had to know how insecure I felt.

No one had to know I was sick.

Things were fantastic at first. I was making friends. I was for once, quite popular. I was a hard worker. I pushed myself. I turned down social engagements and parties for the sake of my assignments. I had to be the best. I had to be on top. I had to prove I had the right to be there just like everyone else.

I wasn’t.

But I refused to see it.

SCAD promised students upon enrollment we’d have a career upon graduation if not sooner. That might have been true in the years before, but it wasn’t for us. The economic bubble burst, and all creative companies went into an immediate hiring freeze until further notice. No one was getting a job anywhere. But we persisted. I persisted. It would all work out, as SCAD told us.

But in my collection of professors, I had one that went off the lip service of what SCAD was feeding us. He said the words I repeat to this day to anyone:

“Have a Plan B.”

We laughed at him. I laughed at him.

If the professors didn’t like you, they’d make sure you knew in excruciating detail. I had my self-worth torn to shreds many times in critiques and expected to just shut up and take it. And I did. And I dusted myself off, locked myself in my dorm, and just worked harder on eventually getting my professor’s approval that would never come.

But if I stuck with it, it would all work out.

I got angry. I told myself what the fuck does this professor know. I know I’m good. And I’d assemble my portfolio for reviews by the likes of Marvel and DC. But, as I waited in line for my number to be called, I had to excuse myself to the restroom and vomit from the anxiety. And then I had to carry on like everything was okay. Laugh, smile, explain my work, my ideal job, my artistic point of view all the while my mouth tasting like stomach acid.

That was until my senior year rolled around and I had a complete mental breakdown.

I couldn’t keep up anymore. I couldn’t keep up with the long hours and little reward. I couldn’t keep believing the empty promises that it would all work out. There was favoritism, school politics, and grooming students on how to undercut each other. If you were good, someone else was better. And you were never good enough.

Earlier that quarter, I had injured myself, and was given a bottle of Vicodin. I never took any of it when I was recovering from the injury. But it sat on my drafting table, and I was prepared to down the whole thing.

But. I did one thing right.

I told everyone I had the pills and what I intended to do. And in turn, my support system became an army going to war to keep me alive.

I flushed the pills, and I’m here today. I thank all of them for winning the war.

The thought of suicide scares me. Yet, I was a cutter as a child. But in that one moment, I was done. I was ready to go.

So, back to this “Have a Plan B.”

When I had moved back in with my parents, for the first year, all I could do was stare at walls and cry. I would be carted from doctor to doctor, often times still in my PJs or unbathed. My then new therapist who is now my current therapist told me to write. To just get my thoughts on paper. Just to let it out.

At least it occupied my time.

Something miraculous happened though. It was a moment so insignificant, but it changed everything for me. As I was vomiting my feelings onto the page, Word’s live wordcount kept adding up. In an hour, I had 1k in words. The fact that this was measurable. Quantifiable. And it was immediate.

In contrast, art is difficult. It takes days, weeks, or months to produce one piece. And even then, you feel like you’re going backwards in progress. Writing? I was in, out, and done. I made it a goal. I gave myself a deadline. I kept moving on. I taught myself work ethic and working with a deadline for four years until I got paid for my writing.

I never planned to be an author. Writing was never my Plan B. It was more like… my Plan Q.

I may have found something that brings me contentment, but I have to do it in my own way, and under my own steam.

Did the anxiety and depression ever go away? No. The feelings of self-worth? No. Lack in confidence? No. Manias? No.

This is my normal. This is not a bad thing. I just move though this world differently than everyone else. I feel nothing but joy when I create, the freedom of letting my mind go elsewhere. I’m pretty sure 99.9999% of the time, my mind never comes back from that elsewhere.

Am I where I want to be in life? I can’t answer that question. I never really thought that far. If by you mean a roof over my head, a bed, clothes, and food in my belly? Then that’s good enough for me.

How do I measure my success? I used to think of it in terms of material wealth, or popularity, or some other selfish thing. But really the answer is quite simple.

I survived.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Welcome Antonia Aquilante!

Hello, Internet! Welcome back Antonia Aquilante for this edition of Flash Fiction Friday. Today, she brings us a heartwarming tale of a long flight home may not be so bad with the right company.

Business and Pleasure
by Antonia Aquilante

Daniel strode through the airport at just short of a run. His last meeting had gone over, and though he’d been hoping to change out of his suit for the flight home, he hadn’t had time to do anything more than grab his suitcase and jump in a cab. Traffic hadn’t been as bad as if could have been, but if the line at security was too long, he still might miss his flight.

He refused to miss his flight.

Skidding to a halt at the end of the security line, he craned his neck to try for a look at the front. Didn’t look too bad. He mentally crossed his fingers and juggled bag and briefcase to dig out his boarding pass and license. This business trip, which was supposed to have been quick and easy, had turned into anything but easy. His clients had been difficult, and everything that could have been delayed had been. He needed a vacation, but he’d take making his flight home at this point.

The security line seemed to crawl, but Daniel knew it wasn’t as slow as it seemed. Still, once he got through and was reunited with his bags and shoes, he took off for the gate with the same ground-eating stride and hoped there wasn’t a sprint in his future.

As far as he walked, the gate felt as if it was on the other side of the world. Of course. But when he got there, the gate agent was just saying they would start boarding momentarily. Daniel let out a long breath and loosened his tie. He scanned at the crowd at the gate area, letting his gaze play over all the people—business travelers and families and bored college students—before it zeroed in on one gorgeous man.

He was slender and long-legged in skinny jeans and a gray cardigan over a black shirt, a boldly patterned scarf wrapped around his neck. Dark hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed it out his eyes with a graceful hand. His other held his phone to his ear, his expression animated as he spoke. Seeing him took all the air from Daniel’s lungs. Years ago, he wouldn’t have been Daniel’s usual type, but what did that mean, really? He was beautiful. And Daniel’s day suddenly seemed brighter.

He wound his way through the crowd toward the man on his phone and the empty seat beside him. When he got close, Daniel caught a bit of his conversation.

“So, it was me, him, the mime—yeah, mime—stop getting hung up on the mime! And then the peanut butter came out…” He looked up then and tilted his head to one side as he watched Daniel move closer. “Sarah, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

By then, Daniel was standing right in front of him, and he had a horrible feeling his mouth was hanging open. Mime? Peanut butter?

“Hello, handsome.” He gave Daniel a flirty smile.

Daniel had to smile back. “Hello.” Daniel sat in the seat next to him and settled his bags at his feet. After a moment, he asked, “A mime?”

“Don’t you get hung up on the mime now too.”

Daniel laughed. “And the peanut butter?”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” He said the words almost primly, and Daniel laughed even harder, which only made the man beside him grin, wide and delighted.

“You’re a menace. I don’t know if I should let you out on your own ever again.”

“Then you’ll have to ditch the work trip and come with me next time, Danny.” Nick leaned over for a brief, light kiss. “I missed you. My connecting flight was actually early, which I don’t think has ever happened in the history of flying, and then you were late. I was afraid you weren’t going to get here in time. They’re about to start boarding.”

“Most boring meeting on earth ran long. But I was not going to miss this flight.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Nick lifted a brow in a flirty little gesture that had become so familiar to Daniel over their three years together.

Nevertheless, he rolled his eyes at Nick’s fishing. “Because you’re going to be on it. And I can’t wait to get home with you.”

“Good.”

Daniel wanted to kiss him again, but that probably wasn’t the best idea at a crowded airport gate after a few days apart. Time enough when they got home, and they could cuddle up on the flight. Nick was a cuddler; Daniel had grown to depend on it over the years. They’d only been apart a few days, and he already missed it.

The gate agent called their row, and he and Nick gathered their things and got in line. As they waited, Daniel leaned over to whisper in Nick’s ear. “One thing, though.”

“Hmm?”

“We aren’t going anywhere near Vegas on our honeymoon.”

Nick beamed at him, just as he always did when Daniel mentioned their upcoming wedding. “Of course not. I was thinking Greece.”

Author Bio:

Antonia Aquilante has been making up stories for as long as she can remember, and at the age of twelve, decided she would be a writer when she grew up. After many years and a few career detours, she has returned to that original plan. Her stories have changed over the years, but one thing has remained consistent – they all end in happily ever after.

She has a fondness for travel (and a long list of places she wants to visit and revisit), taking photos, family history, fabulous shoes, baking treats which she shares with friends and family, and of course reading. She usually has at least two books started at once and never goes anywhere without her Kindle. Though she is a convert to ebooks, she still loves paper books the best, and there are a couple thousand of them residing in her home with her.

Born and raised in New Jersey, she is living there again after years in Washington, DC, and North Carolina for school and work. She enjoys being back in the Garden State but admits to being tempted every so often to run away from home and live in Italy.

She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the New Jersey Romance Writers, and the Rainbow Romance Writers.

Website / Twitter / Facebook / Goodreads

[Flash Fiction Friday] Welcome Laura Lascarso!

Hello, Internet! Laura Lascarso drops by for this edition of Flash Fiction Friday. She brings us a tale of that awkward moment of running into your ex at the grocery store. You’re buying condoms, and he’s buying diapers. As a special treat, Laura is also giving away a $10 Amazon Giftcard!

Target Confessions by Laura Lascarso

I never expected to run into him in the pharmacy aisle at Target.

“Theo?”

He turns slightly and glances my way. I wasn’t sure at first it was him, but the blue eyes confirm it, startling bright against his dark hair and skin. His hair’s grown out since the last time I saw him at his sister’s wedding, and I wonder if it’s for a photo shoot. He’s been modeling men’s underwear—I’ve been keeping up with him on Instagram—and his hair definitely has that tousled, just-got-out-of-bed look.

“Chris,” he says with a wide smile, one that instantly lifts my spirits, as it did when we were kids. “I was just about to call you.”

“Oh yeah?” I’ve only seen him about a dozen times since he moved away from home, but we’ve kept in touch, and despite the distance, I’ll always consider him my best friend. I walk over and pull him into a big hug, noticing the definition in his chest and shoulders. “You been working out?”

He laughs. “Yeah, Vince has me doing cardio and lifting. Not all of us are blessed with abs like yours.”

I’m flattered he remembers my abs so well. “How is Vince?” I force myself to ask. Vince is the one who discovered him at a skate competition here in town, signed him as a pro skater with Plan Z when he was seventeen, then started dating him as soon as he was legal. I’ve never liked Vince—his vibe or his attitude. I especially don’t like the way he treats Theo like a commodity.

“Oh, well… we broke up, but he’s still my manager, so… he’s good.” Theo glances down at the package of condoms in my hand.

“Oh, this,” I bluster, not knowing what to say, still reeling from the knowledge that Theo and Vince broke up. I was planning to go downtown tonight in the hopes of getting lucky, which sounds completely sad and pathetic, but accurate.

“It’s cool,” he says with a laugh. “You should get the family pack, though. Cheaper by the dozen.”

It’s then that I notice what he’s holding in his hand—diapers.

“Who are those for?” I ask, almost hotly. If he’s already hooking up with a new guy—a single dad no less—that means I’ve missed my chance with him, again.

“Jack, Tabitha’s kid,” Theo says with a grin as he tosses the package of diapers into the air, catching it with his other hand deftly. I recall Tabitha’s wedding, how stunning Theo looked in a tuxedo. He’s always had that ability to astonish me, and not just with his looks. He’s even more amazing as a person.

“I was going to call you to see if you want to hang out with me while I babysit tonight,” he continues, “but it seems like you’ve got something more exciting planned already.” His eyebrows waggle lasciviously.

“No, I don’t.” I put the condoms behind my back as if that would make them magically disappear. “Besides, I’d much rather hang out with you.”

“Yeah?” he asks with a lift to his voice.

“Of course, T.” I slap his back. “I’ve missed the hell out of you.”

His smile widens. “Well, I’m on my way over to Tabs’ place now, if you want to follow me there. She’s got a frozen pizza waiting for us.”

“Yeah, um, let me just… put these back.”

“Your boyfriend might be disappointed,” he says slyly.

“I don’t…” I clear my throat, feeling my face heat up. I’m not usually this tongue tied around him. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“No? Maybe you should hang onto them then.” He winks and my heart speeds up. When did he become such a flirt?

“Um…”

“Come on.”

I follow him to the checkout, taking advantage of the opportunity to appraise his ass and the languid way he walks. Theo grabs my box of condoms and places them on the counter next to the diapers. To the cashier he says, “We weren’t careful last time and look what happened.”

The cashier smiles and shakes her head as she rings us up.

“I got it,” Theo says, touching my hand as I reach for my wallet. The chemistry is still there, like heat rising from the pavement. It envelops me in a dizzying haze. The cashier makes small talk, but all I see is Theo. His confidence has blossomed in the years we’ve been apart. He used to be such a shrinking violet, but it seems he’s grown accustomed to the limelight.

“So, I’ll see you in a few minutes?” he says when we’re outside, donning his sunglasses to shield his eyes from the blinding afternoon sun. I wonder if he gets recognized by strangers.

“Yeah,” I say with equal parts nervousness and enthusiasm.

“Awesome.” He points across the parking lot to where there’s a drainage ditch we once rode shopping carts down with some of the neighborhood kids. “Remember that day?”

“Of course I do. There’s a Youtube video of it, one of our many dumb ways to die.”

He chuckles. “It’s so weird being here…with you.” He glances over at me. “Feels just like old times. Huh, Boss?”

The nickname conjures up warm memories of the nights we spent together in my tent in Sebastian—all of our fumbling, awkward firsts. “You know it drives me crazy when you call me that?”

He dips his head so that he can look at me above his lenses. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s about to head for his car when I grab his hand and pull him back toward me. A sudden passion overtakes me, like this might be my last opportunity to get this off my chest before the fates tear us apart again. “Theo, there are some things I’d like to talk to you about.” Like the first time I broke up with him, because I didn’t think we’d survive a long-distance relationship. And the time he came out to visit me in California and instead of making room for him in my new life, I sent him packing with Vince. It took seven years of sporadic encounters and endless pining to discover something I knew back when we were seventeen. “I don’t know your plans or even where you’ll be tomorrow, but I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. I should have never let you go…” He even warned me, told me it’d be hard for him to maintain our friendship after being so close, and I abandoned him just like his father did. “I never meant to hurt you—”

“Chris.” He lays his hand on my shoulder and rubs it soothingly. “We were kids, and we were being pulled in different directions. Your life was in California and mine was on the road. Don’t stress, because we’re here now, finally in the same area code. I’ve got a few days with nothing to do and you…”

I finish the thought for him, “I’ve got nothing to do either.” Whatever’s on my schedule, it’s cancelled as of this moment.

“And you’ve got a box of condoms.”

I chuckle and blush and have to look away while a slow burn ignites deep inside me.

He always did know how to make me laugh.

[image error]Bio: Laura Lascarso lives in North Florida with her darling husband, two children, and a menagerie of animals. Her latest novel, THE BRAVEST THING (Dreamspinner Press April 2017), tells the story of a tumultuous, burgeoning relationship between two teenage boys in rural Texas.

Laura aims to inspire more questions than answers in her fiction and believes in the power of stories to heal and transform a society. For social critiques, writer puns, and Parks and Rec gifs, follow her on Twitter @lauralascarso

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Pitfalls of Miscommunication

Greetings my Dandelions, and welcome back as I continue this series of posts on mental illness. I’d like to thank each and every one of you for commenting and sharing these posts on social media. It means a lot to me. And not only that, it means a lot to someone who needed to see them right that moment. Or that one person that took a moment and said “Hey. That’s me.”

My offer still stands from the beginning. I’m looking for you. I care about you. You are safe here. You are not alone in this. No man is an island, but perhaps a planet in one, big, chaotic galaxy.

So, let’s get today’s topic under way. And I’m sure it’s one that resonates.

Miscommunication.

And in the Age of the Internet? Boy howdy, is this a major issue.

You feel it don’t you, my Dandelions, the instinct to walk on eggshells? Pretending you understand because you don’t want to be seen as lesser?

You overpromise and overcommit. Because you may have successfully accomplished a task or project once before, surely you can repeat the success in half the time and raise the bar on perfection.

But the fact remains, replicating that success may prove difficult. Even impossible. You hide your feelings, your worries that you made a critical error or that you know you’re not going to be able to deliver. But you didn’t want to look like a fool for asking for a refresher on the directions or agreed upon terms.

After all, you should know this! You clearly know what you’re doing.

But you don’t.

And you struggle, and trudge on, because you don’t want to look like an idiot. Or worse, childish. Because children are simple and learn by review and repetition. And no, no! Oh no! You are no child.

But somehow everything you learned in elementary school about listening and following instruction never took.

Ever.

This can be applied to anything. You know you have your weak points.

A homework assignment.

A book draft.

An art piece.

A guest blog post.

Cleaning your space.

Separating your laundry.

Meeting up with a friend for a movie.

Baking an unfamiliar recipe.

Calculating expenses.

The list goes ever onward. And ready for a secret, my Dandelions?

I’m guilty of every single one.

You are not the lone Dandelion in your thoughts and feelings, we, together, are a part of a vast field. You, me, and hundreds of millions of others.

Miscommunication leads you and me to hide our feelings and insecurities. That is until the pressure builds and we crumble.

I definitely do.

When I claim I understand what is expected of me, I am met with the cold reality of my limitations.  And I can’t cope. I melt down. I’m a failure. I realize there is no way around working with what I have and delivering in a satisfactory way.

And then comes the part I have to confess I broke my promise. And then the damming reality check I had misunderstood the parameters to start with. Then the cycle renews itself. The feelings of anguish and failure that I never followed the directions and have to toss an entire project.

It’s maddening.

Take it from someone who already has a “touch of madness” in them. It’s heartbreaking.

I place so much expectation on myself, and I spiral out of control when I can’t live up to my own standards of perfection. I bet you do it to. Or you know someone who does.

I get so frustrated that I’m incapable of effectively communicating my feelings when I’m upset. It’s like mid-sentence I start speaking an entirely different language around me that no one understands.

I could be upset about being tired and overwhelmed, and everyone in the room is troubled as to why I’m so upset about oranges.

And that’s when the crying and screaming starts. And because I’m not being understood, I start losing the point of what I had been trying to say. The more I try to find it, I get panicked and frustrated. And then I give up. Because my point was so desperately important to me, but to others, it was not. Clearly, I was being “silly” and “unreasonable” or much worse, “I made it all up.”

I know you’ve done it my Dandelion. Or you know a Dandelion who has.

As we wander this world, viewing our world and the universe beyond with a much different telescope, it’s our job to educate others with what we see. It’s up to us to be forward with our questions and statements as well as clarify what we mean by them.

It’s embarrassing at first, true. Every time I get a royalty statement, I have to ask Dreamspinner admin to walk me through it, step by step. I have a severe learning disability in math. And save very basic addition and subtraction, I have a below average third grade level in math.

I’m going to be 38 in 6 days by the way. Do you know how long it’s taken me to openly admit I am quite literally math illiterate?

It’s our job, my Dandelions, to teach others to have patience with us and listen. People listen in a way that they’re already prepared what to say next, regardless of what you say. Active listening is the key. And it’s a skill that needs to be honed. Even asking “What did I just say?” or “Repeat that back to me?” works wonders. Don’t get frustrated, clarify before continuing. Though it can be intensely frustrating. Especially when I have an advanced vocabulary and others around me don’t understand certain turns of phrases.

And all of us ourselves, each and every Dandelion, we need to actively listen too. But it’s next to impossible in the heat of the moment when our synapses are on fire.

But…And this is a big but…

Understand that sometimes people can and do take advantage of your mangled thoughts and how easy it is to confuse you. They pretend to be the voice of reason when every fiber of your being screams you know better. They either talk you down, or worse, physically beat it out of you, until you’re convinced, “Oh…I made it up.”

I’ve been there. Got the scars to prove it.

And know this: You didn’t make it up.

I still have to tell myself this every day.

Document everything. Screencap. Email. Everything with a paper trail. Talk it over with your therapist or a trusted friend.

There are predators in the world who find us easy pickings. Then there’s people who come to us in the guise of a friend, and regrettably, just don’t care.

I care. I care about you, sweet Dandelions. And if you can’t find a reason, look harder. If anything, be thankful you are breathing. Care about that you survived the opening salvo of the war within your mind, but get ready because the second charge is coming soon.

Speak up! Raise your voice! There is never any shame in asking for help. Silence is how stigmas perpetuate ever onward.

So, keep breathing. Inhale. Exhale. One breath after another. Breathe. Grow.

Bloom.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Welcome Back M.A. Church!

Hello, Internet! Join me in welcoming back M.A. Church for today’s edition of Flash Fiction Friday! Today’s tale is something truly magical when a workaholic takes a vacation to the Happiest Place On Earth in “Beware of Lamps.”

Beware of Lamps
by M.A. Church

Obviously Murphy’s Law was in effect, because everything that could go wrong had. They almost missed their flight because his younger brother, Quince, was a spaz. He waited until the night before to pack for their trip, whereas Logan had packed several days in advance.

That lead to them arriving late into the airport. Then their flight ended up being delayed. On top of that, Logan’s luggage was lost, but the airline promised to deliver it as soon as it was found.

Right.

So there he was with nothing but his carry-on that had his laptop in it and a change of clothes. Thank God his laptop was in it, so he could at least work…. Which, of course, sparked the argument he and his brother was currently in the middle of.

“How long are you going to sit here and keep being afraid of everything in life? We’re at Disney World, for fucksakes!” Quince demanded.

“It’s not a question of being afraid of everything in life, but more of handling responsibility. Something you definitely need to pay more attention to. Life is not a fantasy.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, we’re at a place that deals in nothing but fantasy.” Quince threw his hands in the air. “Why can’t you lighten up and enjoy yourself? All you do is work, work, work.”

“At least I’m not living from paycheck to paycheck, unlike some people I could name.”

“At least I have a life!” Quince stomped to the door of the hotel room. “I don’t know why I even asked you to come when I won this trip. I should’ve known you’d do nothing but sit around and work. You’re hopeless. I’m going to go explore, ride the rides, and have fun. I’ll be back tonight. See you.”

Shaking his head, Logan ignored Quince’s dramatic exit and finished up the email he’d been trying to write for the last five minutes. He loved his brother, he really did, but Quince simply didn’t understand.

The responsibility of raising his brother and sister fell to him fell to him when their parents had been ripped away from them. One wrong turn, and their entire world crashed alongside the car his parents had been driving. He found out quickly insurance only went so far.

Those first couple years had literally been hand-to-mouth until Logan patented a neat little device and made a fortune off of it. He’d worked like a dog, graduated, then worked more to fund his siblings’ college too. Okay, so maybe along the way he’d turned into a workaholic. It was all he knew.

Staring sightlessly out of the window, he admitted maybe he no longer knew how to let go. How to just kick back and relax. He was in his forties now, and had an amazing and highly-profitable career, but in the process he’d sacrificed a chance for any type of relationship or memories that would last a lifetime.

Quince’s words rattled around his head. Quince lived his life to the fullest. Could Logan say the same? He had money. He had power. But what else did he have? When was the last time he unplugged and just breathed?

He couldn’t remember.

Mind made up, he hunted through Quince’s suitcase for appropriate clothing to wear. Good thing they were the same size. Once he was decked out in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, he borrowed a pair sandals Quince had also brought and headed out.

His brother wanted him to live a little? Fine. He’d show him.

* * * *

More hours than he cared to count later, Logan was exhausted but feeling lighter than he had in a decade. He’d done the whole sightseeing thing, rode rides, and even had his picture taken with some of the characters around the park.

As he was getting ready to return to the hotel room—he really needed a break from the endless crowds of parents and children—something caught his eye: the Aladdin-themed stuff. He remembered the movie. His sister’s kids had had it playing when he was over at their house one night for dinner.

Intrigued, he walked over to a machine where visitors paid to rub a look-alike magic genie lamp, like in the movie, then the machine spit a little prize of some sort connected to the movie, like a stuff doll that looked like Jafar.

Oh well, it was something he could bring back to one of his nieces or nephews, along with the other things he picked up. Why the hell not do it? What was the harm? For once there wasn’t a crowd, which was odd in itself, and walked straight to the machine.

After he paid, he rubbed the odd shaped lamp. Only, what could he possibly wish for? He had everything he needed, didn’t he? Although, those things were materialistic. He had the big house, the fat checking account, and droves of people to do his bidding.

But at the end of the day, it was just him in his big lonely bed. He was tired of it. Maybe he should wish for a partner. A brilliant flash of light came from the machine and fake smoke pour out. Then it made an odd banging sound.

“This is just stupid,” Logan said, as he waited for something wild and exciting to happen. “I have everything I need. I shouldn’t wish for anything more.”

He opened the slot at the bottom to see what he’d won, only there was nothing. Apparently the stupid machine had gotten hung up and hadn’t dropped his prize.

“Of course. Why did I expect anything more?” Damn Murphy’s Law seriously needed to take a break.

This was why he didn’t waste time on silly things like wishes. Aggravated, he returned to the hotel. Quince had left a note saying he’d hooked up with some people and would be back much later that night. Logan sincerely hoped Quince would be careful.

After he showered, he dressed in a borrowed pair of night pants of Quince’s, and ordered room service. The meal was quite lovely, and, after returning the tray outside, Logan relaxed on the bed and turned on the TV. Halfway through a show, the electricity went out.

“What the hell?” He shook the remote, tapped it on his hand—like that ever did any good—but the TV didn’t come back on. He even fiddled with the lamp on the table between his bed and Logan’s, but nothing happened.

“Jesus Christ, what now? I swear, I should’ve just stayed at—”

A brilliant flash of light lit up the room and smoke rolled across the floor. Logan jerked his head away to shield his eyes. When he turned back, still blinking, he found a drop dead sexy man sitting crossed-legged, hovering in the air at the foot of his bed, a smile teasing his kissable lips. His skin glowed in the darkness, and the air around him vibrated with power.

Logan gulped as he admired the mesmerizing form in front of him. The light blue flowing pants were sheer—sheer!—along with a matching short vest. There was nothing underneath the thing, and it hugged his muscular, hairless torso. Around his waist was a gold colored sash.

A weird wrap of blue cloth sat on his head with a huge, blood-red stone resting in the middle. A white feather jutted out from the headpiece. On his wrists and ankles were bands of gold. But it was the totally black eyes which freaked Logan out the most.

Stunned, he sat on the bed. “Who… who… w-what are you?”

“Exactly what you wished for, Master. A mate. I am the genie of the lamp, and I have come for you.”

Dear God, what had he done?

[Guest Post] Racheline Maltese and Erin McRae with The Art of Three

Hello, Internet! Please welcome Racheline Maltese as she discusses her new release The Art of Three, co-written with Erin McRae.

[image error]For me, reading romance has always been a little bit aspirational. The characters I identified with (whether heroes or heroines) are always just a little bit cooler, hotter, and more resourceful than me. They are what I could be if I were at my best or the world were kinder to my worst.

This feeling of enjoying romance for aspirational qualities means that I’ve long preferred my heroes and/or heroines to be my age or older (my affection for silver foxes of all genders quite aside). But as I’ve gotten older myself, there’s been a shortage of heroines I can see that way.

At 44, heroines my age or older are often in second-change romances. Something in their lives has gone wrong, and now something in their lives is about to go right. I love the realistic underpinnings of second chance romances (and Erin and I have written more than one), but I also want stories that don’t hinge on past sadness. Writing The Art of Three was very much Erin and I trying to figure out how to solve the riddle of featuring an older heroine without a backstory involving loss.

With a 48-year-old, happily married heroine and two heroes (one, her 56-year-old husband, the other their 24-year-old boyfriend), The Art of Three is about big romantic stories and how new Happily Ever Afters aren’t off-limits for older characters or characters who have already found joy. We wanted to embrace the idea of positive female selfishness and a belief that if you have the right partner(s) in your life, you don’t have to lose what you already have to in order to make big changes.

While the MMF triad at the center of The Art of Three isn’t a set up that would work for everyone in real life, we do believe it’s a possibility – on or off the page – that can appeal to any reader. A woman’s life should not be measured in what is enough and love multiplies.

Blurb:

Jamie Conway has a charmed life. At 24, he’s relocated from Dublin to London to star in his first feature film. Unfortunately, he also has one very big problem: He has a huge crush on his happily married costar.

British heartthrob to middle-aged women everywhere, Callum Griffith-Davies should have more sense than to flirt with his new-to-the-business colleague, but good judgement isn’t one of the qualities for which he’s known.

Nerea Espinosa de Los Monteros Nessim has better things to do than fret about her husband’s newest conquest. She’s busy planning her daughter’s wedding at the family’s farmhouse in rural Spain. Besides, she and Callum have been married and polyamorous for almost 30 years; she’s content to let him make his own bad choices.

But when Nerea flies to London after her artwork is selected for a high-profile museum show, she falls for Jamie too. Soon Callum, Jamie, and Nerea have bigger problems, and surprises, than international logistics. From ex-lovers and nosy neighbors to adult children with dramas of their own, The Art of Three is a contemporary romance that celebrates families, and farce, in all shapes and sizes.

Buy Links:

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Paperback coming soon.

Excerpt:

The cab ride to the flat was silent. Nerea sat in the middle. Jamie was acutely aware of her warmth, especially where their thighs were pressed together. At one point Callum shifted, Jamie assumed to put an arm around her shoulders, but Nerea leaned forward ever so slightly. Jamie felt Callum’s hand warm on his back. Fingers slipped up under his jacket. Jamie wondered if it were possible to spontaneously combust from anticipation.

When they got out of the car in front of Callum and Nerea’s building, Nerea frowned and stepped out of her high heels right in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You’re so tiny,” Jamie exclaimed. He hadn’t realized how high her shoes had been. Or how nice it was to be around a woman who was shorter than him. At five foot eight, most of the actresses and models he worked with definitely weren’t.

“I’m not climbing those stairs in these,” she said like Jamie hadn’t spoken, gesturing at Callum with the shoes.

“This is still an annoying flat.”

Callum laughed. “You love the flat.”

“So do you,” Nerea shot back. “Until you hit your head on the ceiling. Again.”

“The place seemed like a good idea when we got it.”

It was obviously an old and fond argument. Jamie felt privileged to witness it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, nervous all over again. Callum and Nerea had decades of physical and emotional intimacy between them. Was he a fool to think there was room for him at all, even for a night?

Jamie put his doubts aside when Callum gestured for him to follow his wife up the stairs.

Nerea swung her hips more than was probably necessary, and Jamie watched her magnificent curves as she climbed the flight ahead of him, her shoes dangling from her hand. Below, Jamie heard the now-familiar sounds of Callum locking the front door behind him.

His footsteps were still somewhere down a flight when Jamie got to the top landing and was met by Nerea’s smile and a beckoning crook of her finger. His mouth went dry; Callum was all very well and drop-dead gorgeous, but Jamie had never kissed someone as stunning and completely out of his league as Nerea before.

“Do you not want to?” Nerea asked quietly when Jamie hesitated. She wasn’t being a tease. She, like Callum, genuinely wanted to know.

“No, no, I really, really want to,” Jamie said, nodding with embarrassing amounts of enthusiasm. “I just….”

How was he supposed to say that this was a very nice dream but he was afraid he would wake at any moment?

Before he could get the words out, Nerea went up on her toes, slid her slender arms around Jamie’s neck, and kissed him.

Jamie sighed into her mouth. He had forgotten how nice it was to hold onto someone smaller and softer than him.

Author Bio:

Racheline Maltese can fly a plane, sail a boat, and ride a horse, but has no idea how to drive a car; she’s based in Brooklyn. Erin McRae has a graduate degree in international affairs for which she focused on the role of social media in the Arab Spring; she’s based in Washington DC. Together, they write romance about fame and public life. Like everyone in the 21st century, they met on the Internet.

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[Flash Fiction Friday] Grace Kilian Delaney Joins The Party!

Hello, Internet! For this edition of Flash Fiction Friday, first-time guest, Grace Kilian Delaney shares a tale of memorable first dates, and unexpected second chances that are practically… magic.

First Date by Grace Kilian Delaney

“Of all the places and days.” Remi huffed as she looked down upon the sad carcass of a rather large iguana she hit with her car. Grabbing an old T-shirt, she wrapped the battered body in it and put it in the trunk.

She was already running late for call time on the set of First Date, a reality dating show she loved. She’d worked hard to become a contestant, and now this darn reptile would make her lose her chance with the hottest girl on the show, Gemma. Remi knew it was her own fault. She’d casted a spell turning her ex-girlfriend into a lizard, and it’d completely backfired. Marie, a witch like Remi, had cheated on her, and in a fit of anger Remi threw a curse sending her girlfriend’s soul into an iguana. Unfortunately, the spell had called for an amphibian, which is probably why her ex kept returning. And never. Ever. Dying. No matter what.

Remi got in the car. The scaly apparition of her former girlfriend sat in the passenger seat.

“Marie, why’d you do that? You have the worst timing. I’m supposed to be on a date with Gemma, and now I have to toss you into the water. Again! You’re just jealous!”

Her ex snickered and then stuck her tongue out.

“You’d better stay dead this time!” Remi warned. The only way to get any reprieve from Marie was to dump the T-shirt-wrapped corpse in water, preferably a lagoon at high tide.

Remi drove to the lagoon and parked on the roadside. Looking at the dashboard clock, she calculated that she’d be more than a half hour late for her call time. With a sigh, she got out of the car, trying to remain calm when a few joggers waved to her, one of whom looked like Gemma. She brushed the thought aside, knowing her love interest would be on the dating show’s set. Remi returned the gesture and went to the back of her car. Just as she opened the trunk, Gemma ran up next to her, greeting Remi with that adorable double-dimpled smile that had won her heart.

Her perspective lover wore scant running shorts and a tight-fitting tank top designed to show off all those lean arm and leg muscles beautifully. Remi drank in the sight, forgetting everything else.

“Remi? I thought that was you,” Gemma said, setting a bulky backpack on the ground.

“Fancy meeting you here…in the lagoon…and not on the set.” Remi chided herself for sounding like an idiot.

“Didn’t you get the message? The station moved the call time. Hey, are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

Remi looked to where Gemma’s gaze was fixed and saw the bloodstain. “I’m fine.” She waved dismissively. “I…uh…had a small accident and ran over a lizard.” Reluctantly, Remi opened the trunk of her car and showed Gemma the mashed body. Meanwhile, the scaly ghost appeared by Remi’s side, laughing hysterically. Annoying little brat, Remi thought.

“You got one of those, too?” Gemma pointed right to the apparition. “I thought my ex was the only one.” She opened her backpack and showed Remi the contents. Another dead lizard. Remi saw its transparent counterpart standing on the concrete beside Gemma, head high and a smug grin on its face. It turned to her and stuck out its tongue. “I came here to dump her in the lagoon. It’s the only way I get any peace and quiet once she shows up again.”

Remi laughed, not believing her luck. “That’s why I’m here, too.”

“I tell ya, that’s the last time I substitute a reptile for an amphibian in a spell,” she said with a snort. “Should we do it together?” Gemma suggested. A hopeful gleam shone in her chocolate-brown eyes, those beautiful orbs that had the power to melt Remi.

“I’d love to.”

They gathered the corpses and walked waist deep into the cool waters of the lagoon. Reciting a parting incantation, one universal to their witch kind, they released the remains and watched as the water swallowed them. Soon, the matching iguanas swam out to meet their deceased forms. When they caught sight of each other, they stopped and stared.

“Look!” Gemma said, pointing. “I think they like each other.”

The iguanas transformed back into their human form and joined hands. Without looking back at the witches that had cursed them, the dead lovers ascended, disappearing into the sunlight.

Gemma took Remi’s hand and smiled. “Guess ours isn’t the only epic first date.”

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Art of Lex Chase Returns to the Novel Approach!

Hello, Internet!

As March winds down, let’s go out with a bang with my third installment of Art of Lex Chase at the Novel Approach. I’m presenting something a little different and personal this month. Many of you have seen me babble all over social media about a little dystopian project featuring sentient plant people called Grow. Well, this month, the MC Iris takes center stage along with a hearty excerpt from Chapter One. Check it out over here!

Miss last month? Never fret. Here it is just for you! For my second post at the Novel Approach, I rattled on about the amazing crack that is the Showtime show, Penny Dreadful. If you haven’t seen it yet…Get yourself to Netflix and fix that. Featuring characters from turn of the century penny dreadfuls, like Dorian Gray, Victor Frankenstein, the Wolfman, and others, it’s my jam. Last month’s piece features my ship of Dorian Gray and Victor Frankenstein. I don’t care if Tumblr says this ship is not a thing!

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As always, looking for a commission? Postcards? Posters? Swag designs? Character designs? Book covers? I’m your person! Check out my examples and price list here!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Kim Fielding Drops By!

Hello, Internet! Kim Fielding brings us a good one for Flash Fiction Friday! After a man faces a tragedy, he must accept it’s a new day and a new chance to heal.

The Violinist by Kim Fielding

Dmitri sat motionless in the chair by the window, the morning sun casting a pool of light onto his lap. The warmth felt good, a slight balm for the aches in his body. He’d been awake all night but didn’t remember watching the dawn. Everything had been dark, but now—all of a sudden, it seemed—there was light.

“You want some breakfast, Dee?” The voice was soft behind him. Hesitant, just like everything else Sam had said to him since the accident. Well, not everything else. Sam had been insistent with his I love yous.

“Some coffee would be great,” Dmitri answered.

“And some toast?”

Dmitri turned his head to see Sam grinning hopefully. “I’m not wasting away to nothing,” Dmitri pointed out. “In fact, until I can start working out again, I’m going to be a lump.”

Sam bent to drop a kiss atop his head. “I don’t mind you lumpy. But you need to eat.”

“Fine. Toast.” Dmitri smiled to himself as Sam walked away. Dmitri had lost this little battle, but that was usual with Sam, who could out-stubborn a mule. This was the first time since the accident that Sam had argued with him—a sign they were both recovering, perhaps.

An oak dominated the backyard. Right now the tree was full of birds, their chirps and rasps audible even through the closed window. Dmitri watched the flurry of wings, the darting of tiny bodies. He found a beat in their sound and movement and tapped the fingers of his right hand on the arm of the chair. He hummed a melody too, something a bit reminiscent of the Sibelius concerto he’d performed a couple of years earlier.

“It’s going to be a gorgeous day,” Sam said as he reentered the bedroom with a tray in his hands. “Think you’ll be up for a walk?”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Nope. I only have the one class today anyway, and the students are working on an online project. I’m all yours, if you want me.” He set the tray on the little table at Dmitri’s side.

Dmitri smiled at him. “I do want you.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, uncertainty tingeing his voice. They hadn’t made love since the accident, had barely even touched—except clinically, as when Sam helped him dress.

“Yes. I’m…. The bits below my waist have healed fully, I think.” He’d been fortunate, the doctors said. Only some deep bruising of his legs and pelvis, plus an assortment of scrapes, gashes, and spots of embedded windshield glass. No major damage to his internal organs. Within a few weeks, he’d be good as new—if you didn’t count the stump where his left hand used to be.

Trying to mask his discomfort, Dmitri looked at the tray Sam had brought. Coffee steamed in a bright blue mug, scenting the air with its rich aroma. On a matching plate, two squares of whole wheat toast smiled up at him with peanut butter mouths and banana-slice eyes. “My toast has faces,” he said.

“Remember our second date?”

Of course Dmitri did. In an attempt to impress the guy he had a mad crush on, Dmitri had picked an expensive Italian place. Sam played it safe, ordering pasta, but Dmitri had opted for fish. When the waiter set down their dinners with a bit of dramatic flair, Sam had taken one look at the intact fish and squawked, “It has a face!” Everyone in the restaurant had turned to stare, and although Sam had blushed fiery red, he’d also given the room an awkward little bow. That was probably the moment Dmitri fell in love with him.

“Come here,” Dmitri said, patting his own lap.

“Yeah?”

“I won’t break.”

Sam settled down on him, gingerly at first but eventually resting his entire weight on Dmitri. He gave a deep sigh and buried his face in Dimitri’s hair. “I love you.”

“I know,” Dmitri said, giving his waist a squeeze. “Even if I’m lumpy.”

“Even if.”

“Even if I can’t play anymore.”

Sam pulled back to look at him. “Babe, I loved listening to your violin. You were magnificent. But the music? It was never just in your hands. It’s here”—he tapped Dmitri’s head—“and here.” Sam pressed his palm over Dmitri’s heart. “You’ll find another way to let it out. And I’ll love you regardless—even if all you do is whistle while you walk.”

Maybe it was the bright sun and noisy birds, maybe it was the silly faces on his breakfast. But probably it was the warm solidity and confidence of the man on his lap. The aches in Dmitri’s body faded, and his maimed limb suddenly seemed not so much an obstacle as a challenge. And Dmitri had always relished a challenge.

“I’ll sing to you in bed,” Dmitri said, groping Sam’s ass with his remaining hand.

Sam laughed. “I’ll make it so good all you can do is scream, babe.” He reached over and grabbed the plate with the toast. “But you’ll need some sustenance first.”

With Sam still on top of him, brushing the crumbs from Dmitri’s chin, he ate his breakfast. Somewhere in the back of his head, a melody was taking shape. Perhaps by the time Sam was done with him this morning, Dmitri would find a way to set the song free.

Untangling Irrational Thoughts

Being irrational is any person’s Achilles heel. Losing all sense of how to logically work through a situation and exploding into a fit of retail therapy, or comfort eating, or having a relationship altering meltdown. Like ending a friendship, or ending in divorce.

Being accused of being irrational only exacerbates the situation. It’s the classic cheap shot that will send anyone over the edge.

But in those moments when I’m alone? When I’m not in a confrontation? When I could be thinking about how my cat Remmi has belly floof as soft as the back hair of angels?

There it is. The irrational thoughts creep in.

It’s no secret I’m taking time away from releasing any new stories for a while. I’m still writing and working on a project I love. But I’m taking a break for a while.

For how long? No idea. But it’s the best decision for me at this point in my life.

But then…there it is. Scrolling though social media, my peers, and their successes. Or my peers finally having their breakout moment.

Am I happy for them? Of course! I couldn’t be prouder for many of them.

But the sad fact remains, due to my irrational thinking, I’ve drifted from quite a few I was once very close to.

I’ve made up countless reasons why.

They’re too busy.

They’re popular.

They don’t need me to cheer them on anymore.

I’m dead weight to them.

These are just a few very real irrational feelings I have. And every time someone has a success, that thought takes hold, like some kidnapper holding my joy for ransom.

“You’re not good enough,” my mind tells me. “You’re not clever enough. Smart enough. Strong enough. Fast enough. You suck at everything.”

And I know—believe me—I know I’m being irrational. I know none of that is true. I know within the fiber of my being I’m making random conclusions.

Therein lies the rub.

I can verbalize all I want about my irrational feelings. Tell myself how silly I’m being. But those feelings don’t go away. They sit there, like 16 Buicks parked on my chest.

It’s paralyzing.

And I bet you’ve done it.

So we’re going to work our way through it. Together. But before we start, these are things that through trial and error, I found work for me, they might work for you, or they might sound awful. Here is a jumping off point.

Ready? Here we go.

Get off social media.

Just do it. It’s the place causing you grief anyway.

My therapist once said like happiness, grief is contagious. And actually, it’s scientifically proven. In 2012, Facebook staged an incognito social experiment. You can read the study in detail here. Where users were split into three groups. Some saw mostly negative posts, some mostly positive, and some saw a balance of the two.

I was the unlucky one who only saw sad news at that time. I commented to a friend if I heard about yet another pet or relative dying, so help me…
Get up. Stand up. And walk around your house.

Pace your living room. I do laps around our six-foot kitchen island all the time, much to my annoyance of my mother constantly asking if I’m in the kitchen. Go to your mailbox. Walk around your yard. Make a list of places you feel safe and can be okay unattended.

Full disclosure, I’m somewhat agoraphobic. I don’t leave my house unless I know where I’m going is what my brain deems is a “safe” environment. Target (yes, the big box store) is one of my “safe spaces.” So is my therapist’s office, and a local museum. And if I’m traveling out of state? There’s a lot of back and forth about cancelling. I have to really want to go. I also really have to talk myself into the pros and cons about the experience. If I feel it in my gut it’s not a good idea, it isn’t. Listen to what your gut is saying.
Cook something.

Even if you don’t cook, I bet you can manage a sandwich. Just the simple act of stepping away from grief and accomplishing something as small as a sandwich is something to be admired. Bake cookies! Bake a cake! Do something that keeps your hands busy.
Take a shower.

My personal go-to and first recommendation to everyone. For those living with mental illness, bathing can range from a regular routine to a massive accomplishment. I actually fall into this category. But also taking a shower just because your brain has convinced itself you’re a walking trash heap works wonders. With the hiss of the shower, and the hot water on your body, the world falls away. You don’t even have to wash your hair. You can just stand there, or sit down, and let the water flow over you. Stay in there until it goes cold. I promise you’ll feel more human.
Watch Netflix or Streaming Service of Choice.

I know most of you reading this prefer books, but sometimes, you have to change up the medium. I’m a painfully slow reader to the point that I’m intimidated by the commitment factor and the risk it might not be my jam. My mind wanders within five sentences and it’s impossible to get back on track. But take 90 minutes for a Disney movie? I can spare that! If I want to commit to something, I can binge on a show, or pace myself bit by bit. And if I don’t like it? I’ve lost nothing.
Journaling.

This is an old tried and true. Journaling on pen and paper helps a person get inside their heads to suss out the issue. Write a letter to yourself, or the object of your grief, spit it all out. Get all your rage on paper. Say all the things you’ll never say. And don’t ever send it. I’ve written a number of these angry, cathartic letters.

But what if your irrational thoughts are from something that directly affects you? A business venture, a vacation, making plans, a life altering decision.

Delegating is your best friend. See if you can delegate the task elsewhere. You’d be surprised how many things are not in your control. If you think something is your sole responsibility, it likely isn’t. Like a computer’s hard drive, there’s a back-up for a reason. Someone can help and pick up the slack.

It’s okay to put it off, or hand off the job to someone else. Even if you detest the idea, because it might mean a missed opportunity or lost finances. But sometimes, you can’t deal.

But don’t let the issue sit there and simmer. Don’t let it become the monster in the room.

Let it become your ally.

What do I mean by that?

Let’s face it, this monster in the isn’t going to show itself the door. But you can learn how to sit next to him and do your work. He’s the irritating deskmate we all had in grade school.  But we didn’t let him wreck our day.

Face your issue when you’re ready. When you are thinking clear. And if you fear you may lose your cool, have backup of a trusted friend, family member, or a co-worker you can count on to be in your corner. Talk through it with your therapist. Have a plan. Stick to it.

What if your irrational thought come with a deadline attached? What if the decision has to be made ASAP?

Take a breath. Take all of them.
Concentrate of the task at hand. Call for back up. Call for backup. Call. For. Backup.
Take a walk, or just sit in the sun. Even your car. It doesn’t even matter if you’re at work or home, just sit in the car.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Make your choice.

Above all, life is difficult, and for people like us Dandelions, it’s full of pitfalls and also wonder.

Fear reminds us that we’re alive, and that we have something to lose. That thing should be treasured. If no one ever felt afraid, we’d never try.

So be kind to yourself. Reward yourself. Tell yourself, “Yeah, that was hard, but I survived to face my fear another day. I will persist like the Dandelion I am.”