Dreaming is Free

48037634-cachedThis post title has ADHD written all over it, but stick with me. I’ll keep the loquaciousness to a minimum. If you’re Googling “Loquaciousness” don’t feel bad. I overheard that word at a party and couldn’t wait to use it in a sentence. Then I realized – I was that L Word. And hilarity ensued. You should’ve been there. I killed.

But back to this post.

When the hell did mid September happen? Shit. I have things to do. A book to finish. Power meetings with influential networking hipsters who can change my life by signing on the dotted line after accepting my hilarious pitch of my oh-so-fabulous story.

Dreaming is free, people. Just ask Debbie Harry. Please Google her too, kids. And do yourself a favor – dance naked to Heart of Glass at least once in your life. Alone in your room is fine. But not in front of any mirror. Just dance. And while you’re at it, blast “Dreaming.” Because it really is free.

What made me think of dreaming out loud tonight? I’m glad you asked.

A couple of hours ago I received a text message from an old sister-friend from our home town of O’ahu, Hawaii (let’s call her B). She and I both live in Southern California now, but have not seen one another in nearly 20 years, can you believe? We reconnected through the marvels of modern technology and plan to meet up soon for a long overdue brunch. But back to her text. I was matter of fact-ly very tongue-in-cheeky mentioning to her that I had a book to finish because I’m dreaming big – her reply was priceless and one I just had to share:

“Don’t stop until it’s done! Then dream up another dream – that way you’re always livin’ the dream.”

It’s been a while, but that quote is so her. Beautiful. Positive. Inspiring. The depression, diseased part of my brain thinks she’s a bitch. I happen to adore her. I win.

B has always been this stunningly beautiful light, and her energy is equally pure and real. Whatever she’s on, I want some. I kid. Those drugs days are over, kids. I know she’s high on life and love. B just reminded me I’ve gotta get me some of that – clinical depression be damned.

If only snapping out of a dark space of wanting to evaporate were as easy as reconnecting with a beautiful soul. Sometimes staying in touch with loved ones, even in the thick of isolation reminds us how much beauty there is in this world. The fact is, when wrestling with clinical depression some days that actually does work. Other days, not so much. Sure, there are medications that help kick-start our serotonin and dopamine receptors, but even that sometimes isn’t enough.

Today was hard. I mean really tough. Because of a morning trigger (something superfluous other than that it hit a button I’ve been trying to avoid), I found myself in a downward spiral of despair that only the fantasy of not wanting to live surrounded my psyche for the better part of the day. Was I ever in danger of taking my life? No. But here’s the thing about clinical depression. There’s a huge difference between not wanting to live and actually taking the steps to assure you don’t. One of my favorite authors, Auguesten Burroughs maps it perfectly:

“If you believe suicide will bring you peace, or at the very least just an end to everything you hate – you are displaying self-caring behavior. You are still able to actively seek solutions to your problems. You are willing to go to great lengths to provide what you believe will be soothing to yourself. This strikes me as optimistic.”

I cling to these words. They are my life raft even when I’m the one puncturing the holes and I feel myself sinking. I remember – most of us with depression don’t really want to die. We just don’t want the pain.

Dreaming is free.

 

3042659-poster-1280-lucid-dreaming-1

 

 

 

This is my blog. Please check out my website for book excerpts, old school stripping photos, press and more.

Christine Macdonald

Jellyfish

His name was Duke. A delicious, twenty-something tall drink of London with dirty blonde hair, emerald eyes and sun-kissed abs. I usually dug the Mario’s and Antonio’s of the world, but with Duke, I made an exception. He was the precursor to David Beckham, only without the tanorexic Spice wife, four kids and bank roll. I’m not even sure he played soccer – football – whatever. But that accent. The cocky attitude. As soon as he said my name, I was all in.

As if his royal dreamyness wasn’t enough, he was the hottest new waiter at the club. If he wasn’t already shagging my friend, he would’ve been perfect. Fucking hot guys. Always gay or married.

Duke and Maddie weren’t technically married, but they shacked up just days after they met. She chose “Madison” as her stage name, honoring her mid-western roots, and if possible, was even more stunning than her English prince. It’s fascinating to watch two beautiful freaks of nature meet for the first time. It’s like they know – they’re born with winning lottery genes – but only really appreciate it when locking eyes with fellow ticket holders. So annoying. Even more so, when they end up being really cool. I wanted my aesthetically gifted friends to be assholes, just so I could hate them.

But I adored Maddie and Duke. And as much as I lusted after his piping hot, witty, heavily accented bounce-a-quarter-able-ass, I never broke the Stripper Sisterhood code of: Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Fellow Pole Dancer’s Penis.

So we became tight friends. I looked up to Maddie, who was a couple of years older and

Christine Macdonald

Why writing this memoir is a pain in the ass

Original post on Kathy Pooler’s website: A Memoir Writer’s Journey.

Do you have the courage to bring forth this work? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes. – Jack Gilbert

Stretching my body to the morning, my eyes, they start to focus. The corners of my mouth curve up when I realize the seconds that linger today are allowed. Minutes pass. My smile becomes a sigh; I turn over, breathe in the quiet space, and celebrate by drifting off again.

Weekends are good to me. They don’t judge when I sleep past 10:00, never require hair and make-up, and the dress code is always casual. Being single and without children, these days are my own, allowing simple pleasures that I cherish. A fresh mug of coffee. A cozy bed. The safety in my solitude. They breathe a tender silence, allowing my mind to dream – and dream, it does – once I am fully awake.

After turning on my laptop (and my brain is finally up), I’m quickly reminded that dreams take work, and that writing this memoir is kind of a pain in the ass. I can hear you now, “why bother writing one, if you’re just going to bitch about it?” If I were the brilliant, literary genius-type, I’d throw you a clever reply. But let’s be real. I’m a drug addict, ex-stripper, recovering narcissist writer, wrapped in a riddle of self-deprecation and vanity. I’m a hot mess who’s been through some shit – from abuse to overdosing. I bother because I’m compelled. And the deeper I plow, the more crystallized my reason: I’m giving purpose to my past, through words I long to say, about a time I can’t forget.

If you told me twenty years ago, I’d be writing a memoir in my 40s, I’d have shot vodka out of my nose, unsuccessfully trying to reign in the laughter. There’s no way I’ll make it to 40. Then I’d read through my

Christine Macdonald