Failure Gives Me A Chubby

Failure Gives Me A Chubby
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More than a few years ago I created my own coaching company, but to be honest, it was created the moment my mentally ill mother (now long since dead) called me her favorite endearment which was “creepy kid” followed by “shit for brains” and (for me, in comparison, the rather bland) “dumb shit.” This normally came after she’d raise her hand at the dinner table and say to me starting at age 5 or 6, “Whose hand is this? Do you know whose hand this is creepy kid?”

Yeah, I sure was a Creepy Kid.

Yeah, I sure was a Creepy Kid.

My mom when she was high on pills

My childhood was a combination of Woody Allen’s Interiors and the late-70’s roller skating epic Roller Boogie with Linda Blair who, it seems, isn’t acting much today but really, really, really into animals. If that collision of a mentally ill mother taping the insides of a room shut so she can kill herself (that would be Interiors) and a movie about chubby teenagers skating their way into our hearts seems schizophrenic to you, well then that would make sense since my mother was (no embellishment here) schizophrenic.

(I write ‘no embellishments’ as a swipe to some people in my life who say I embellish or who say what my mother did to me wasn’t ‘that big of a deal’. Okay, girl. Clearly, you ain’t gonna win no Mother of the Year Award. Look — I’m very dramatic. It’s true. But what I write about my memory of what took place is real and honest. My book is called a memory memoir for a reason. It is a remembrance of a memory through the emotional filter of today. I think that’s fairly obvious. Move along, now.)

One of my two sisters says our dead mother wasn’t schizophrenic, yet she heard voices in her head directing her to do things, so in my view that makes her a little off her rocker.

Mother. Brooklyn. That face. ‘nuff said.

Mother. Brooklyn. That face. ‘nuff said.

Me wishing I was high on pills

My mother heard voices and had no idea what was reality and what was the warping of her mind. I will say this – it made for a truly fascinating childhood. And made me the perfect person to coach other people on how to leverage their neurotic tics for their success. That may read like a bumper sticker but I don’t mean it to. It’s meant to be a positive spin on things that I blamed for causing me to drag my ass in the financial and career and love arena for, oh, a mere 45 years.

Not that I didn’t legitimately suffer, and not that I didn’t have genuine, rabid anxiety disorder and depressive tendencies that held me back for way, way too long. I did and what I do today to keep the boat sailing is astounding compared to where I used to be. I used to wake up, smoke weed and cigarettes and plod along to a job where I was someone’s bitch, i.e, assistant. Now I wake when it’s dark, meditate, read a spirituality book, work out, eat vegan and yes, I sound obnoxious but fuck me if I don’t feel fabulous.

The fact I’ve finally woken up and gotten my shit and career together still astounds me. I keep waiting for the emotional bottom to fall out, and that’s not good. That was my mother’s thing. Never can rely on a good thing. It’ll change when you least expect it. Because of my past, I’m a big fan of neurotic people. Neurotic people are like a warm blanket for me. And not because I like being lost in a sea of pathos and self-perpetuated pain.

No, neurotic people I adore because I love to show them that the second they learn to love the very thing they hate about themselves is the second they become free. I know it sounds trite and something a hippy might say to pacify a person in pain, but it’s really the way it works.

No reason for this except it’s the holidays and this was taken during the holidays so...there you go.

No reason for this except it’s the holidays and this was taken during the holidays so...there you go.

No idea who took this

I resisted this work for many years. My dad was a shrink, my sister was a shrink for disturbed kids, my ex-husband is a shrink, I grew up reading the Collected Works of Carl Jung while other kids were going to Star Wars, I had a mother who verbally abused me whenever she had a chance. So yes, yes it’s all very logical I’d be here doing this work to help others see what they can’t see. And the work is something I truly love. It fills me up with a sense of genuine purpose knowing I’m helping others align with their purpose. And I’m very happy I’m the kind of coach who finds the title coach funny. I find it funny because I think it’s thrown about by well-intending people who fill their lives with positivity saying and those things you buy at Michael’s craft stores without basing them on the weight of their life experience, especially the shitty times.

All of this talk of positive thinking and coaching wouldn’t resonate with anyone if it didn’t have the weight of tragedy, and because my life and family was/is/has been filled with tragedy you can trust me when I say this way of thinking and viewing life is much better than sucking on a bong with killer Kush and working your Law of Attraction and waiting for your million dollars to magically arrive.

Don’t get me wrong – I spend my time with affluent people and those who don’t mock spending $500 on a pair of pants and I avoid those who feel “saving for a rainy day” is the key to a stable life. That only perpetuates a lack of feeling abundance and prosperity and the ability to hop a first class flight wherever you want. I simply relate more to those who are delusional enough to see that the struggle is the fuel for their lives, and yes I know that’s goody goody but the other way of thinking doesn’t work, so…

Talking about money and all that fun stuff, this photo seems appropriate. By the way, this was taken when it was 110 degrees in midtown Manhattan on the way to a big interview I totally bombed at. What was that Shirley MacLaine said in Postcards from the Edge? “Never let them see your ass. Or is it never let them see you sweat? ”

Talking about money and all that fun stuff, this photo seems appropriate. By the way, this was taken when it was 110 degrees in midtown Manhattan on the way to a big interview I totally bombed at. What was that Shirley MacLaine said in Postcards from the Edge? “Never let them see your ass. Or is it never let them see you sweat? ”

Me

The idea that failure can inspire us gives me a chubby. I’ve failed so many times, and when you fail as much as I have there are one of two ways of emotionally reacting when all falls apart: 1) Fuck this, let’s go drink, what is the point, life sucks, I want to die, call me later (if I’m still alive) or 2) Fuck this, I’m going to get what I want, this is a pain in the ass but I really don’t want to kill myself (not really), let’s see how we can make this work, crap – now I’m that person who talks about hope and faith. Great.

I talk to people all the time and coach them on how to coach themselves, and God help me, but I love the work. I do. It’s so thrilling to be right all the time about what people need to do to be happy and make money and get what they want. I know that sounds like something Holly Hunter’s character might have said in the movie Broadcast News (if you haven’t seen it, shame on you) but I see only good in tooting your horn. Sure, maybe not doing it so much in public but I was never very good at that because I’m so thrilled I have something to toot about. Wait. That didn’t come out right.

I might want to take the advice Albert Brooks gives William Hurt in the aforementioned movie. When William Hurt ascends in his career and becomes one of the top newscasters in the world he says to Brooks, “What do you do when your reality exceeds your dreams?” to which Brooks replies, “Keep it to yourself.”

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