Dear Inner child,

Hi, readers!

As some of you know, I have a birthday coming up the first week of September.  Most use the beginning of a new year to reboot and start fresh.  I, however, like to use birthdays as a time of reflection, growth, and to check in with how far I have grown in the last year.  I have alluded on here before to some of the difficulties I have faced this year.  When you research the number one stressors: moving, job change, loss of loved one, breakup, financial struggle...you name it? I've had it. And so, this was the time where I thought "Right, time to fix this.  Time to take some time to restart my system." And so, I've gone through what I call "Granola Therapy"

Now, Granola Therapy is basically what I use to describe everything I am doing in my healing journey.  Yoga practice, journalling every day, speaking with an actual therapist and healer, studying psychology , diet, and finally attempting to get meditation under my belt.  I can now successfully touch my toes, avoid gluten at all costs, and have journal entries that are notes upon notes of my readings that have titles like "Psychosomatic Illness caused by Porous Ego Boundaries due to Narcisstic Parent" and many more. I'm treating my healing like it's a full time job.  Mind. Body. Spirit. 

In this process of my Granola Therapy, my therapist figure told me that all of us still have an inner child.  Our inner child is the reason we feel useless emotions such as fear and guilt.  The illnesses that can stem from guilt are endless, and include things such as depression, eating disorders, self harm, and on and on.  Here I was, thinking that my problem was one thing, when really, it was something that stemmed back to my childhood! Imagine that! She encouraged me to write a letter to little Payton.  The little girl that still lives inside of me, much like your little self is still in you. When revealing several problems I have struggled with over the years to her, she said it was my inner child, mourning over the loss of a childhood I never had.  The thought struck me as odd.  Didn't I go through puberty? Wasn't I an adult now? How does one go from infant to adult with no childhood in between?  She asked me to pick a time there was a great change and shift into my life.  Write a letter as an adult on the outside, giving advice to her.  It was after I did this, I felt a great cathartic release.  I think that if more people did this, it would help them.  So, here I am, laying it all out for you, readers.  Here is my letter to my inner child:

Dear Payton,

Greetings from your adult self.  I know this is a bit odd to receive a letter from you in the future, but work with me.  And for the record, you'll always be the tallest girl in school, but that's OK, because people pay you for it now.  Also, you have a super cute dog now too, so there's that. I suppose you're wondering why I am writing you, don't you? I know how inquisitive you can be.  I am writing to you to give you some advice on how to deal with some of the things that will be coming your way.  It may get lengthy, but here it goes:

You are not an accessory.
There are going to be times when you feel like your sole purpose in life is to be a supporting cast member around someone else's movie where they are the lead.  This is bullshit. (By the way, you swear now.) You are your own human being who is entitled to your own feelings, thoughts, and actions.  You can dress the way you want to, speak your mind, and don't you dare let anyone try and shame you into believing otherwise.  You are not a prop in a play that stars anyone else.  You are not meant to enrich someone else's life.  You are meant to live your own.

People who love you won't manipulate you.
You're young right now.  You need clear, direct communication.  Anyone who twists words, sulks, or tries to make you feel guilty for not doing things the way that they want you to do them is abusing you.  You may not feel hurt now, but years later, it will devastate you. You know deep down that you're a good girl.  So, stop trying to make everyone else happy, because it will never happen. Ever. Reminder: Guilt and fear are useless emotions.

Your body is not broken. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Also, sex isn't dirty.
You're about to become a woman, P. You're going to be in the guest bathroom of your Dad and Stepmom (or as I refer to her, Stepmonster's) bathroom, and you're going to get your period.  It's going to be painful, and scary, because no one prepared you for what was supposed to happen.  You'll call your grandmother, covering the mouthpiece with your hand while you whisper it, because you will feel that anything that comes out of your vagina is dirty, and shameful.  Not true.  You'll read up on the subject for hours and hours, and be the only eleven year old who knows all about ovulation.  This is where you become obsessed with research.  It pays off in the end.  I promise.  Your body is doing what it was intended to do, and it's a beautiful thing.  Also, everyone who tells you that sex is dirty is wrong.  They've just had terrible experiences.  Just make sure you do it with people that you love and who love you back.  Everybody does it.  Nothing shameful about it. Girls have urges too.  Not just boys. Own your sexuality instead of letting it own you. You aren't a "bad girl" for feeling like a human being. 

People who love you will protect you.
There are going to be a few instances that no child has any business in seeing.  This is where our childhood ends, I'm afraid.  You have to step up and protect yourself, because no one else will.  You may think that people are on your side, but really, they are just using you.  You are working on how to deal with stress and anger right now, little P, because no one was a role model in teaching you how to do so.  But, you're getting better. I wish that I could pop in and take you out of the years you are about to face, because it's ugly.  This is where you establish your worth as a woman, and as a human in general.   This is where you grow up because somebody has to be an adult.  And you do it way too soon.  And I'm sorry you have to see it. 

You are allowed to do what is right for you and feel no guilt about it.
You march to your own drum, P. Always have, always will.  You do things that aren't typical of the suburbia you were raised in.  And thank God for that.  You know what is best for you.  You know what is best for your body, your brain, and your soul.  There are people in your life that are going to try and break down your walls, and try and make you question your beliefs because they make them uncomfortable.  Stay strong. Feel sorry for their ignorance. And know that it is absolutely okay to remove yourself from situations that are painful for your own sanity.  It really is.  No guilt.  

You're so stinking beautiful.
Seriously. When I look back at photos of you from this time, I think of how beautiful you are.  I know that it sucks growing new body parts, and hair in funny places, but you really are.  The boys make fun of your eyebrows, but that's because they live in the suburbs and have no idea what high fashion is.  I hate that when I look at those photos I see a beautiful girl with pain in her eyes.  I think that the pain is only obvious to us, but it's there.  This feeling of not feeling worthy, or good enough because you're not as thin as the other girls, or as pretty in your mind as they are will not go away.  But, I promise you that one night, there is going to be someone who loves you very much who is going to hold you while you cry about how fat you think you are, and brush away your tears as they tell you you're wrong.  For the first time ever, you will feel it.  I promise. So stop making yourself sick, stop counting calories, and for God's sake, stop comparing yourself to that girl from your theatre class, because she looks horrendous now.  (You're welcome :) ) 

Don't lose track of your dreams, and don't lose your faith.
You were whispered to on the playground one day, remember?  You were told what your calling in life was.  Don't you dare ever lose that.  Don't let anyone tell you that you are not destined for greatness, or aren't good enough, or talented enough, or pretty enough.  These people are scared of you, and what you know.  They are intimidated by your ways of doing things, because they make them question their own.  Don't ever, ever let anyone make you feel that you aren't worthy of what you know you were supposed to do.  As far as faith goes? We know that God isn't some bearded old guy who lives in a church building.  We know better. You know there's something out there bigger than you.  You feel it.  Don't ever lose that.  Don't ever stop believing that you will always be taken care of, and always keep a pen with you, because you know when you're deep in ink and paper that that's when it talks to you. 

I vow to do the best of my ability to protect you, inner Payton.  I know that you've been hurt, afraid, and felt like no one is on your side.  I'm here to step up and defend you, nurture you, and make you feel like everything is OK, because now? You live inside of me.  So, chin up, because it does get better.  Also, start eating your vegetables sooner. The stuff you're eating now is why you're so miserable.  

Love,
Payton

I challenge you guys to do the same.  This has been a terribly therapeutic process for me, and has really helped to deal with some issues that have creeped up here lately.  What would you tell yourself as a child?

Love you guys!
-P

Embracing my Divine Feminine: The Role She Was Born To Play

I laughed as I heard the voice at the other end of the phone said:

"Your problem, Pay, is that you're been neglecting your divine feminine."

HA! I was sitting around waiting on my Tiffany blue toenails to dry, with half a pound of green crap on my face, drinking out of quite possibly the world's girliest mug, stroking my cute little fluffy dog.  I had just had a shower in which I sang Nancy Sinatra songs at the top of my lungs.  I had watched an Audrey Hepburn movie in the last 24 hours. My body was currently having the "Yay! We're not pregnant!" party.  If there's anything I didn't think I was doing, it was doubting my womanhood.  I mean, I have sneezed glitter in the last two days.  How on earth was I not feminine?

The voice of my caring and very patient friend then explained to me that judging from the circumstances I have been dealt in recent past, and how I was dealing with them currently, I have been putting Her on the back burner.

My friend then rattled off a list of things that the Divine Feminine represent: restoration, life, renewal, creation, nurturing, receptivity, compassion, understanding, intuition, harmony...and many more.  She then listed a few things that had to do with modern society's view of what womanhood was all about (high heels, makeup, dresses, being a wife/mother, cooking, cleaning) I then responded with "Oh, being a housewife?" to which she replied "No.  That's where society gets it all wrong.  Neither the expectation of a housewife, nor a radical feminist are correct in how women are.  It's impossible.  Being a woman is all about duality."

Here's where I come out and say it:  I love being a woman, but I can't stand being around them.  My group of friends are predominately older males (to which I will see the eyebrow raises and the utterances of "Daddy Issues" under people's breaths.) mainly because my interests are generally male driven: old music, record collecting, and strange British comedy to name a few.  And to be honest?  Most women make my skin crawl.  When choosing female comrades, I tend to gravitate towards "mother" or "big sister" like people.  This has been my whole life.  When I was fifteen, one of my best female friends was in her forties.  We still remain friends to this day. Young women, (and let's face it, some middle aged women too) to me, scream: needly, slightly, jealous, insecure, helpless, weak, and much more.  When I expressed this to my friend, she laughed:

"You do realize that you have been conditioned to believe this way for years, don't you?"

I thought long and hard about it.  My friend then asked me what my mother was like growing up. (Always stems back to childhood, doesn't it?) My mother was and still is a stunningly beautiful woman.  She is multi talented, funny, and gorgeous.  When I was a child, I saw the way the other mothers looked at her.  They thought of her as stuck up, or pretentious, or selfish, all because of the way she looked. My mom always made a point to take care of herself, to doll up, and to dress in a very "her" manner.  Because she was prettier and let's face it, more talented in other aspects of life than most mothers, she was isolated from the den of "room mothers" in my classroom.  I resented not having a homely mother at the time.  Strange men told her she was pretty, and god, why couldn't she just work at a desk or bake cookies like a normal mom?  Why did she have to go on stage in front of all of those people and sing?

This was my first example to how women are:  Jealous, and insecure.

Someone once said that when we are young, we get "whispered to".  Meaning, we are told from an early age what we are supposed to do.  It's when we get older that we learn to tune out the whispers.  It gets easy with the hustle and bustle of everyday life to block out the whisper.  And when we can no longer hear it, that...that is when we lose ourselves.  I had the whisper early on.  From five years old, I knew what I wanted to do.  One of my friends likes to remind me that we are all given "roles" in life...like a movie...and when we neglect those roles, our life goes into chaos.  Well, a few years back, I tuned out the whisper, and I stepped down to understudy in the role I was born to play.  (Remember those glorious old Hollywood trailers..."So and so in the role she was born to play!!")

One of my favorite quotes from Diane Von Furstnberg. I keep this taped in my notebook. 

When I made this decision, I didn't listen to my gut...about anything.  That was step one in losing my Divine Feminine:  I stopped listening to my intuition....I felt myself harden.  I stopped doing what made my heart sing.  I put everything on the back burner.  I was neglecting the roles I was born to play.  The last two years feel like an out of body experience for me, really.  I did more compromising, settling, and fighting within myself and with others (another sign of repression) I was doing things I wasn't comfortable doing, I made huge mistakes that I can't undo, and most importantly?  I neglected myself.

I was raised in an environment that was a little different than most.  I was fortunate enough to have a steady father-figure that went out and was the predominant breadwinner, which allowed my mother to stay at home with us, but also encouraged her to do the things that made her happy and fulfilled (singing, painting, writing, creating...) and worshipped her in all her feminine glory, and in turn, she balanced him out, being supportive, the caretaker, the one who kept the house in order.  They completed the other one.  They didn't compete, they let the other play the role they were supposed to---and happy to play.  This is the dynamic I always craved.

So I found myself in a situation where I was not one of these, but both of these partners.  I was the main source of income, the breadwinner, the one who worked behind a desk for hours on end every week, and although I tried to make the most of it, all I kept thinking was how much time I was wasting when I could be doing things I was supposed to be doing.  I wasn't appreciated there, and dealing with everyone's energy when I'm really an introvert who just so happens to have a somewhat outgoing personality, was exhausting.  And then I would have to go home, and fill the shoes of the perfect housewife.  I found the things I once loved were daunting.  I didn't want to leave the house, didn't want to put on my shoes (which if anyone knows me, knows that's what I love), didn't want to put makeup on (another thing I love) I wanted to sit around my house in my pajamas, scratching my nonexistent balls.  I had unwillingly, and unknowingly made myself the man.  When my partner at the time made the comment that everyone else in the world got to see the "best" me---one in which I was made up, hair done, fully dressed and "on" and he got to see the rest of it--the human incarnation of me where my skin isn't perfect, my hair sticks up all over my head, and I am cranky...I knew it was over. When I mentioned after taking a second job that I needed to concentrate on my passions so I could feel like I was doing something worthwhile, he said to me "There's only room for one star in this family, and it's me." I knew that I had to "man up" (no pun intended) and move on.

My friend explained to me that every one who identifies as a woman's version of their Divine Feminine is different.  She named off a list of things associated with being Her....Heels, dresses, makeup, bras, being a wife, being a mother, cooking, cleaning, periods, being vulnerable, being open...Which gender roles resonate with me? Which ones turn me off?

I said "OK, I love heels, dresses, makeup, hate wearing a bra and never do, would love kids and a husband, love to cook, could take or leave cleaning, disgusted and totally loathe my periods, and being vulnerable makes you weak." to which she laughed.

"I can handle the no bra thing. Cleaning is fine if you don't love that too.  But the thing about your body doing it's thing, you need to respect.  It's part of what makes you a woman.  And a lot of women would kill to be able to have one, because it means one day you will be able to have children, hopefully.  Embrace it. Examine your resistance to these things.  Now tell me why you love the other things?"

"OK, well, heels are works of art that I get to wear on my feet.  Dresses are more fun and easier to wear than pants, makeup is like painting your face every day.  The bra thing is because I don't think women need them, and I've read more on children and their development, and birth than someone who has ever had children.  Always knew I wanted them. I just feel more comfortable in a caretaker or nurturing position.  Love kids."

"Now, here's the part that's difficult.  Why does being vulnerable make you weak in your opinion?"

I thought long and hard.  I thought about being a kid and bursting out into tears, and my biological father telling me to "Suck it up.  Stop being a wuss."  I thought about how being open let bad people in to my life, and how being vulnerable left me a target for others to come in and hurt me.  I thought about the wall that I worked so hard to build, to keep everyone out.  I thought about how I couldn't cry for two months because I had trained myself to not do so.  I thought about having to deal with men in the workforce and how you weren't allowed to have an emotional moment, or a time when you worked purely on a gut instinct (even though you were right in the end) because they would just say you were being irrational, stupid, or must be on your dreaded period.

I thought about how I had to adapt to function in the world of the Male.  I changed my clothes, hair, makeup, shoes, even lowered the tone of my voice so men would take me seriously as a peer, instead of as a "woman" How could I expect anyone else to accept me and respect me, if I couldn't respect myself?  If I was being untrue to who I was?  To who She was?

And that's when I had the a-ha moment.  The modern world we live in doesn't value the Feminine.  Women have to be bi-lingual.  We have to speak Feminine and we have to speak Masculine.  It is not the other way around.  We are trained from an early age that other women are competition.  We are bred to be jealous...to envy...which goes against our nature to be compassionate, loving, accepting beings. We are taught that women have certain crosses to bear, instead of considering them privileges.  We are instructed to go against our nature, and go on rationale, not emotions, which then in turn, shuts down our intuition.  We are expected to neglect our delicate biochemistry, because we have to "man up" Instead of celebrating the fact that I was a healthy, blossoming woman stepping into adulthood when I started my first period, I was taught to be ashamed, to hide, to be grossed out...for doing what my body does.  I was told that I was a slut for not wanting to wear a bra...and then in turn when I posted the blog on my last website about my anti bra decision, I was told by feminists that I was truly not on their side because I still wore make-up and high heels, and was "secretly being repressed." by the patriarchy.  (When actuality, I just like glitter.) Because I have been told that I am not good enough because I don't make as much money as a man, or the fact that I don't have the desire to sit behind a desk for the rest of my life, because I was told that being a sexual human being was "dirty", because, dammit, I actually do want to go back in the kitchen and make my significant other a sandwich....I am not good enough..

Guess what?

Not true.  I love the fact that I am 6'3" in high heels.  I love the fact that my body is fully functioning and healthy after a few scares in the past, I am not grossed out by any of its functions any longer.  I love the fact that not wearing a bra makes me feel like more of a woman, because I'm not trying to turn my breasts into something they're not...they're just fine on their own.  I love the fact that I get to paint my face each day to highlight the features I like the best, I love the fact that I don't want to go into corporate America in spite of what the world tells me to do, I love the fact that my body can sense pleasure and I can not be ashamed of it, and I love the fact that I can find my way around a kitchen, and usually make something pretty decent out of it that will make other people happy. And I love the fact that I am an emotional creature who feels.  Because after shutting that part of your life off for years?  It feels damn good to cry.


This is what makes me MY woman.  What makes me tick doesn't make other women tick.  That's what's so great about being one.  If you want to have children, you can.  If you want to work 50 hour s a week, you can.  If you want to not wear makeup, wear pants, buy astronomically expensive shoes or not...you can. We need to focus more on what being women represents: openness, love, understanding, compassion, insight, intuition, forgiveness, wisdom, connection, sensuality...whatever those things mean to you...because when we neglect these things, our health falls apart.  Trust me.  I'm dealing with the repercussions right now.  When I was told that I have overwhelming amounts of the stress hormone in my system, and that I had overworked my body to the point of it not functioning properly?  I knew it was from trying to be something I was not meant to be.  That was from trying to shut Her up.

This is a new journey for me, readers.  I know that I will never be back to the person I was before two years ago.  I know that I am on a spiritual journey. and my awakening means that I will never be able to go back old Payton.  What I am doing is evolving into who I am supposed to be.  I am trying every day to be more open, more loving, compassionate, understanding, less judgmental...I am trying not to neglect what makes my heart happy, and I am having to learn how to listen for that whisper.  I know the whisper is still in there, but I have turned the volume down so much that I am having to strain to hear.  I am working every day on loving the person I am now, instead of beating myself up for the mistakes I made along the way.

Remember, just because you embrace your inner DF doesn't mean you're not smart, tough, or strong.  And it's OK to hate pantsuits. 

Love you, readers.  Shine on. 

No Matter Where You Roam, Know Our Love Is True.

What a month this has been, readers.  What a year, really.

Yesterday, I returned from yet another trip to Louisville to spend time with some members of my adopted family.  For those of you out of the loop, let me fill you in on "the family".

Being a chubby, prepubescent girl in the middle of the suburbs with affinity for all things old, it was quite clear that I wasn't going to be making friends my own age.  This is where the internet comes into play.  Before MySpace, even, I was on message boards, seeking out friends with similar interests.  My particular obsession was The Beatles. This lead me down the roads of MySpace, then later Facebook, which lead me to meeting "the family" in person at a Beatles themed festival in Louisville, Kentucky called Abbey Road on the River.

All of a sudden, I had a network of support scattered all over the world.  If I were ever feeling blue, or lonely, or down on myself, I would just open up the window for the internet, and be surrounded by all of my friends.  Once a year we would gather for a week and have Beatle summer camp, basically.  No one judged you here.  Everyone loved.  It's what I imagined a real life family reunion would be like.  At the time of my discovery of these beautiful people, my life at home was not ideal.  My parents had split up a few years prior, and my dad had married a particularly nasty breed of woman.  It was only natural to seek out surrogate parents, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles to supplement the void I felt.  This is where they came in.

In 2010, I kept seeing a name pop up in my "People You May Know" section on Facebook.  We had hundreds of mutual friends, so I sent her a friend request.  Her name was Carla, and I had vaguely remembered seeing her face around the year before.  I later came to find out that Carla mentioned to her long time love and soulmate, Jim: "This really young girl added me on Facebook.  But she's got some really nice shoes!" And thus, a new Beatle mom was born.

Over the course of the next four years, I spent several nights with Momma Carla and Poppa Jim as I dubbed them.  We went and saw shows together, met up for dinner whenever they were in Nashville, and kept in touch.  I even had a key to their house at one point.  In February of this year, I had just made a huge life change, and was celebrating that along with the Beatles' 50th Anniversary with a small section of the family in Kentucky.  There was a moment where Carla saw our reflections in the glass window of the ballroom we were in, and I remember her trying to get the lighting just right to capture the moment on her phone.  We drank, we danced, and we talked about how happy she was to be healed from her previous injury that left her arm in a cast.

Three weeks later, I found myself in Carla and Jim's house.  Carla had been diagnosed with a rather nasty case of cancer.  I felt absolutely thrown for a loop.  My Beatle family doesn't go away.  They're the only stability I am guaranteed in this life.  Why was this happening to her?  Like a dutiful daughter, I drove the three hours to come see her, and I will treasure the few days I was there.  She had a wound vac that she had to carried around (she christened it "Mona") and we joked about bedazzling it so it would be more Carla-appropriate.  I found it so funny, and so like her that even laid up in bed, she still wanted to make sure I noticed her new pedicure, and she wanted to hear about the date I went on the night before, asking me if he was too old like the rest of them, and did he have a job?  With her stitches, blood, guts, and packed wounds, she was still more concerned about me.  We binge watched "Orange is the New Black" for two days, and I came back home.

Fast forward to another three weeks.  I am in the hospital of the University of Louisville the week of Abbey Road on the River.  It didn't seem right.  How on earth could the festival go on with one of my moms in a hospital bed?  Our friend, and absolute saint, Jill was sitting with her, and we joked about busting her out of there so she could at least see The Beach Boys on Sunday night.  Even in the state she was in, she was still concerned that I saw her sparkly sandals, kept her up on the latest gossip in my life, and told me she loved me.  That was the last time I saw her alive.

Another three weeks go by, and I found myself in a remote part of Kentucky. I sat with some of the family in a pew at her funeral.  And just yesterday, I returned from the most beautiful celebration of her life.  Jill graciously opened her home to everyone, and we ate, drank, danced, and cried.  Oh, how we cried.  I have never felt more gracious to know a human being than I did in that moment. Here we were, a house full of people from all walks of life, all crying, holding each other, and laughing over the life of one person.

The next day, I was one of the first ones awake.  I looked at Jill's wall in her entryway.  She has everyone that walks through the door sign her wall.  Consider it a yearbook of sorts.  As I finished scribbling my note, I looked over and saw where Carla had signed:

And it brought me a tremendous amount of comfort.  ALWAYS together.  Nothing could ever separate  us.  We were still a family in spite of distance, time zones, and money.  Why would one of us on the other side change that?

On the way home, I was playing back the conversations in my head I had with everybody.  This has not been an easy year for anybody I know by any means.  There have been deaths, divorces, huge financial loss, and much more.  As I started to tear up a bit, I popped in Revolver into the CD player.  Carla's favorite Beatles was George, and as most of you know, the opening track is "Taxman"--a bonafide George track.  As I skipped over to the song I wanted to hear, the heavens opened up, and it started to pour.  I'm talking, violently pour.  Without thinking, I looked up and said "Gee, Carla, I know that George is your favorite.  If I go back to 'Taxman', will you knock it off?" and as I went back to Track 1, the rain immediately ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun shone brighter than it had all day.

That's our girl.  Always.  

A special thank you to Jill for letting me and the rest of the motley crew crash at your pad.  Thanks to Bea for the glorious vegan food, to Misty and Jeff for the beautiful tunes that I hopefully didn't destroy too badly with my drumming, and to the rest of my family for giving me what no one else has ever been able to.  Remember: No matter where you roam, know our love is true. 

Me And My Arrow and Finding My Life's Path

Hey, readers.

Do you ever have those moments where you just throw your hands up as you look to the sky and say "Alright, Big Guy! Give me a sign! Let me know I am on the right track!!"  I did about a week ago.  Let me rewind for those of you who aren't caught up with me.

At the beginning of February, I quit life as most of the world knows it.  Now, when I say "I quit life." I don't mean I checked out.  It was quite the opposite.  I checked in to my body.  I slowly but surely started to purge all that was toxic from my environment in every sense of the word.  This involved one big step:  Quitting my day job.

Now, I wrote about the process of quitting my job.  I was miserable there.  I had a few bright glimmers of hope for the human race every now and again, but it was an environment that one couldn't thrive, and if you were hoping on accomplishing your own dream?  Forget about it.  I could sell sand to the Egyptians, but no matter how hard I tried, no one seemed to notice or care.  Add that on top of a mounting list of problems in the company I was working for (legal and ethical) plus problems building up in my relationships (romantic and otherwise) I would come home every day and be exhausted.  I used to cry before going to work...just because I felt like I was dying every hour I spent in that building.  How do you even begin to explain that to someone?  I put on a cheerful demeanor along with my eyeliner, and walked out the door with my head held high. No one was going to know what was effecting me.  No one.  After nine months of feeling stifled, unappreciated, and flat out exhausted, I left.  No amount of money was worth my sanity.

When I started telling people that I wanted to leave and focus on myself, people thought I was bat shit crazy.  They still do, actually.  How could someone so young be so mentally wiped out?  Are you sure you're not just lazy?  You must have a huge ego if you think normal work is beneath you!  These are all things that have been said to my face.  Usually met with an eyebrow raise, a slight laugh, and a head shake.  How could you understand?  No one ever has.


This stems back to five year old Payton.  I remember sitting beneath this giant tree in my elementary school during recess.  This tree was hundreds of years old, and the way the roots grew down to the soil, it created a perfect little seat for me.  I would smooth down my dress and plop in between its natural arm rests it had created for me.  It was here that I would dive into my world.  I had a book with me then always (still do now, actually) for such cases when I want to check out and "quit the world".  I would peer from behind the pages and my hair at the children as they ran around and played arbitrary games like Power Rangers or whatever else.  At five years old, I would mumble to myself "I am not like you."  This became my mantra.

As a young adult, I find myself doing pretty much the same thing.  I was recently put into a situation that I was terribly uncomfortable in...a normal twenty-something venue surrounded by people my own age.  As I watched them nurse their cheap beers and go on and on about stuff I neither knew about nor cared to know about, I had that same feeling, and wish I hadn't left my book in the car.  "I am not like you."

You know those parents that tell their kids they are beautiful and special all the time?  I didn't really have parents like that.  They told me once in a while, but seldom did I ever think the sun shone out my own ass.  However, I always had an instinct inside of me that I was not destined to sit behind a desk.  I was not meant to take orders.  Upon making my big decision, I did something very normal for me...research.  I looked at the lives of all of the women I admired.  Big, small, artists, regular women...all sorts.  What was their common thread?  They all had the same voice inside of them.  The first page of Barbra Streisand's biography said it best:

And I always knew I wasn't going to be behind a desk.  So, I did what any normal twenty something woman would do.  I signed up for life classes online.  OK, so not normal when most of my peers are out swigging cheap beer talking about how Kurt Cobain is my generation's Lennon. (yeah, right.) Anyway, I signed up for these life classes.  Other women would sign on at the same time, and we would listen to a lecture.  Cindy Crawford of all people was the one person who woke me up.  She did a class on finding your life's passion.  Seeing as most of my heroes have died in a five year span of my age I am currently in, there has always been a sense of hurry up for me in finding mine.  I had my pen and paper out, and was ready to learn.  She asked a set of questions along the lines of this:  What is your passion if you have found it? Mine is communication and creativity.  Easy enough.  I love to communicate WITH creativity.  The second one was "Where do you want to place your energy?" I wanted to place my energy in healing.  Healing takes time.  When someone comes down with the flu, we don't expect them to wake up the next day and be ready to run a marathon.  When someone undergoes an operation, we don't anticipate them to be ready to swim the English channel.  Why is it that when it comes to mental and emotional healing, it's looked upon as being lazy?  I needed time and space to devote my energy to healing my heart, my mind, and my body after the trauma and the dis-ease I had put it through.  I wanted to devote my energy to taking care of myself, to doing yoga, to writing, to working on things that made my heart and soul well.  

The next was "Why not?" Why not devote my time to healing myself so I could focus on my passions?  Uh, duh? The fourth question, however, hit me like a load of bricks.  "Are you comfortable on your own journey?  Not everyone will accept it."  If I had a dollar for every time someone accused me of being an egomaniac, arrogant, snobby, and a complete and utter idiot for trying this path out, I would have been able to buy a giant building in the middle of downtown Nashville (in which I would then paint a giant mural that spells out TOLD YOU SO in psychedelic lettering) I have had to go through more borderline traumatic experiences with people who claim to love me screaming at me for trusting in my choice.  But had I accepted it?  No.  The greatest people in the history of the world have all had naysayers.  Was I comfortable with being amongst them?  Absolutely.

So how am I getting by?  Photo shoots (in every aspect...modeling, styling--something I really love because it makes people feel good about themselves), hosting live rock n roll trivia (another passion), and popping in and out where someone needs something that I am capable of doing.  I've added up my months, and what's hysterical is that I usually end up making more than if I ever did sitting behind that stupid desk...consistent?  No.  But it usually evens out.  It's not all fun and games. There have been days where I've skipped a few meals, and I have acquired a love for eating chickpeas for dinner...but to be fair, they are delicious.  But the true wealth is in knowing that I have been given so many opportunities that most people would never get.  I have ample amounts of time to dedicate to my spiritual practices, I have some of the most wonderful and talented friends from all walks of life, all over the world....friends who are incredible rockstars at life that I can drop everything I'm doing to be with.  And most importantly, I don't have the "I hate my job." syndrome.  

What "a day at the office frequently looks like"

And this too. 

How do I do it all?  Faith.  Honestly.  Like I said in my previous post when I was speaking about the bird that doesn't fear where its next meal comes from, or where it will fly next, or how will it get there.  I know that I will always be taken care of.  In my heart of hearts, I know that I have a purpose, a reason that passion was put in my life, and a reason for being here.  I know in my gut that as long as I am trying, I will be fine.  There are some days where I don't know if I can go on the way I am.  There are days where I wish I had the ability to go out and find a rich partner to take care of my financial needs like some of my friends have done.  There are days where you just need a sign...that's where I was.

One of my favorite "signs"--a card from one of my very best friends.  It says "Life has two rules: 1. Never give up. 2. Always remember rule number 1." 

So, here I am, bitching and moaning about needing a sign.  I was sitting at the coffee shop (the same one I cried over cheese on my sandwich because I was untrue to myself, and kept all my feeling welled up and they came out at the worst time possible) pre cheese incident, I was surfing around on the Craigslist free section (because, surely if I am feeling so blue, a new-to-me piece of furniture would help, or at least be an art project) and I see a post for a dog.  "1 year old Malt-zu will be taken to shelter tomorrow if no one gets him." the ad read.  Surely, not.  And then, I opened up the ad, and saw the most beautiful face I had ever seen.  My boy. Here I had given up the search on finding a dog to replace the hole my family pet had left two years prior...here he was tapping me on the shoulder, so to speak.  I rang the people up, and they said their children were sick of taking him out, and that if no one got him, they were taking him to a shelter which was notorious for being a kill shelter.  The next day, he was sleeping next to me.  I named him Arrow. One, for the Harry Nilsson reference, and two, because an arrow has to be pulled back in order to spring forward.  I feel like it was appropriate for the year I have gone through so far.  Here was my sign.  Everything was working out just as it is supposed to.  

You know you're on the right path when you end up in the same place as your childhood hero slash crush.  And they want you there. 

They say you know that you know when you are on the verge of a spiritual healing when you can feel bliss.  I've had glimpses in the past few days. I've been cooking more, focusing on my yoga practice, reading like I used to, and finally the songs that used to make me cry, I can sing along to now.  Today, Arrow was in the passenger seat after a busy day.  I looked over at his little face, all happy to be out and about.  We had the windows down, and I was sipping on an iced coffee that a handsome and thoughtful man had bought me...and I just laughed.  I laughed, and I smiled, and I felt so happy that I could burst.  Sure, I would have probably enjoyed the ride better if the air conditioning in my car were working properly on this hot summer's day.  I would like to eventually be making that drive in a nicer car one day.  But for now?  This was as close t heaven on earth as I could get.  Me and My Arrow, taking the high road...

As far as most people feel, I haven't been successful.  I rent a house with a roommate, my car (all be it paid off) is older, and now the AC has quit working, and my bank account has been in the negative more than once this year.  Would I like to change all of these things?  Of course.  Am I happy with complacency? Not in the slightest.  Am I working towards a bigger goal here?  Absolutely.  

The only thing I am constantly reminded of is to be present.  Be here now.  And keep moving on your path. 

Because I'm going to faith it til I make it.   

And remember, readers:

"You know you are on the right path when you feel like 'This isn't costing me my power. This isn't costing me my psyche. This isn't costing me my soul. I am not confused on a deep level. I'm not drained.' I can be tired after a day's work, but not psychically drained. I'm not losing myself. I'm not negotiating my sense of integrity. I'm not losing life. Why? Because you/re not betraying yourself in anyway. And you don't have to compromise who you are. When you do, you put poison in your own mouth. Every choice is either going to enhance your spirit, or drain your spirit. If you compromise yourself to the point in which you feel drained or depleted, then you've betrayed yourself." 

---Caroline Myss

Free As A Bird And Sobbing Over Swiss: How I Learned I'm Not In Control Of Everything

Hey, readers.

What a crazy few weeks I have been through! I got back from my Beatles festival I go to every year, Abbey Road on the River (www.AbbeyRoadontheRiver.com) and have had a terribly difficult time adjusting to the real world back home ever since.

Do you ever have a moment where you question something you believe?  Do you ever have an extended period of time like that?  How about a whole year?  That's where I'm at right now.

I started the year with a clear plan for where my life was going.  I was settled into a routine that was based on mediocrity and lying to myself. I saw where it was headed.  I didn't like it.  So, I changed it.  Perhaps it's my inner Virgo coming out, or the fact that I need to feel in control over situations to feel comfortable with any given situation.  Perhaps it's the fact that humans need some sort of consistency to feel at ease.  Although I knew in the back of my mind that I was making the right choices (or so I thought), I felt like I was anything but grounded.

If anything this year has taught me thus far, it's this: YOU ARE NOT IN CONTROL, PAYTON!  There are things that have come my way that I am convinced is the universe or God or whatever you want to call it metaphorically slapping me across the face to remind me of this fact.  I have had money stolen right out of my wallet (money that was factored into the most tightly controlled budget...because there I go, trying to control things again!)   I have literally had to stop people from stealing everything out of my car as well.  Talk about unnerving! Aside from material possessions, I have lost my sense of security, walking the streets with my bag clutched to my chest, and if I had something in my wallet to steal, I would protect that too.  I have lost some of my faith in the human race, robbed of my belief that mostly everybody is good and we should trust them all.  That is what hurts the worst.  I can't pay bills with trust, but it helps me to sleep better at night...when I do sleep at all.

In learning that I am not in control over most things, I am learning more and more with every step of the way.  Coming from the mentality that I am an independent woman, and taking pride in that fact, I have figured out how to navigate this world to the best of my ability with nothing but the skill of using my talents to get ahead, I somehow translated this to "I must not be vulnerable. I must not cry."  This resulted in me masking my feelings by throwing myself into new endeavors and eventually being so overwhelmed with emotion that my coffee pot breaking down sent me into a near panic attack, and getting a sandwich down the street at my favorite lunch spot that was served to me with cheese on it made me burst out into tears...here's a lesson.  Deal with your emotions, or you look like the girl who cries over cheese.

"I DIDN'T WANT CHEESE! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME WITH YOUR MOLD?! WHYYYYYY? WHY CHEEEEESE???!"

There's that expression that John Lennon penned: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." And I can't help but repeat that to myself over and over again, almost as some sort of mantra.  I've had to accept the fact that my life is probably not going to go according to the way I planned it.  I may or may not end up settled into my career and married by the age of 25 like I had hoped, so I could start my family at age 30, just as I have always written in journals since I was a child. (I used to think I was going to marry Davy Jones too, and we saw how that plan worked out) I have never ever been able to accept the "Be here now" way of life, instead always straining my neck, trying to look over the fence at tomorrow, I have stopped appreciating where I am at in this moment.  I was speaking to someone who has been a crucial part of this journey with me, when they said "You need to give yourself some credit.  Look at what you've done. Look at what you've been through." and I thought about it.  And damn, the woman I was two years ago couldn't handle it.  And who knows, the woman I may be two years from now may not be able to either.  Between the finances, the burning bridges (bridges I thought were indestructible) loved ones sicker than I could ever imagine, feeling helpless in that aspect...no wonder I was sobbing over swiss!

When I was at my festival, I was in heaven.  Even though I felt like my "safe place" had been violated by an intruder, I was surrounded by the unconditional love of my chosen family, and some of my oldest friends---the music that kept me company through good and bad.  There is a porch that wraps around one of the floors of the hotel, and over the last seven years of my life, I have had some of the most memorable, profound, utterly stupid, and incredible times of my life in that one spot.  I have watched sunrises, sunsets, and shooting stars with people from all over the world on this one balcony.  It's usually good for realizations and "aha!" moments.  I won't drop names as to who was with me, but I was amongst friends...new and old...very talented ones at that.  I was going into the story of the journey I had been on.  As I was gabbing on and on, a small bird hopped across the ground at our feet, and he twittered about, hopping from one crumb to another, eating up all of our crumbs we had dropped.  Freakishly talented friend leaned over to me as he pointed at the bird.

"Do ya see that bird, Pay?"
"Yeah."
"See how it hops from crumb to crumb?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think the bird worries about where its next meal is coming from?  Or forgetting how to fly?"
"Well...no..."
"Exactly.  You are the same as that bird.  You don't need to worry.  Just as the bird is taken care of, so will you."

Spreading my "Wings" with Steve Holly 

And just like that, I exhaled.  A real exhale.  Like a yoga exhale.  One where you can feel everything leave your body, and you feel empty in the best way possible.  In the moments that I will have to face in these upcoming months, I will have to keep reminding myself of that slice of time over and over until I can get it through my brain.

"Free as a bird, it's the next best thing to be....free as a bird..."

Tweet tweet!

Food For Thought (Not For Thighs)

"Oh, God. I am turning into my mother."

My older girlfriends tell me this is something I will be saying a lot more as I grow older.  I find myself saying it a lot more now than I did when I first moved out on my own. It usually has something to do with being late to a party because I was waiting for the glue on something I had rhinestoned to finish drying, or the fact that I am predominately attracted to men old enough to be my father, but this time, it was different.

A few days ago, as I made my way out of the shower and into my bedroom, I dropped my towel in front of the mirror.   I poked and prodded at myself for a good five minutes going "This is too big, this is too small, I hate these freckles, I wish I had my fat girl boobs back..." and so on and so forth.  When I reached up to grab my ribcage to make sure I could still feel it, and pinched my thighs, I looked at myself in the eye (well, in the mirror in the eye) and said that out loud.  "Oh, God.  I am turning into my mother."

I recall being a little girl, sitting on the toilet lid, kicking my feet back and forth as I watched my mom put her makeup on.  The process of makeup has always fascinated me.  The idea that you can transform your face in fifteen minutes boggled my mind, and all of the colors and smells and brushes were so foreign to me.  When she allowed it, I would watch.  I thought (and still do think) that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.  She wasn't dowdy, or homely like my friends' moms.  She had long dark hair...and a body that always fascinated me.  I had always thought about what it would be like the day I grew the foreign orbs on her chest, and how I would probably spend all day poking them because they jiggled like Jell-O.

The process would start out like I do mine now.  Base makeup, concealer, blush, powder, and then the eyes and lips! My favorite part to watch! And as she would step back to admire herself, that's when it would start: "Ugh, my arms are so fat. I need to lose fifteen pounds. Ugh...my boobs..." Here I was looking at this gorgeous woman who in my eyes was perfect, and she was telling me otherwise. I was at the age where Mommy was always right.  So she must be.

I wish mothers knew that this is where little girl's self image is born.  Sitting on toilet lids, watching their moms get ready is where it all begins.

I was about nine when I realized what food does to you.  Growing up in the south, I was taught to clean up my plate so I could grow up "big and strong". A plate full of fried chicken and mashed potatoes will certainly make you big, but strong is debatable.  When my biological parents split up, I was given lots of sweets to ease the pain.  A reward if you will for putting up with Mommy and Daddy arguing.  Dealing with a new place to live in a scary environment was difficult.  Little Debbie understood me.  I would wander from my bedroom to the kitchen to eavesdrop on conversations Mom was having on the phone, and before you knew it, I had eaten an entire box of Ding-Dongs by myself.  Ding-Dong, my self esteem is dead!

Three months after my bio-parents divorced, I was in the throws of early puberty (probably due to a mixture of diet and hereditary issues) and my dad remarried. He married a particularly nasty breed of woman...one who liked to drink and take pills.  In her drunkenness, she used to poke me in the stomach and talk about how fat I was. "Never be good for anything.  No man will ever want you with a gut like that." I started to get sick, and that's when I realized that she was crushing up diet pills and putting them in my food.  This initiated the self-hate cycle of body image in my childhood and early adolescence.  It didn't matter that I was the lead in the school play, or that I had a terribly prestigious writing award hanging on my wall.  The only thing that mattered was the tag on my jeans.  I still think I am the only kid who went to Disney World and didn't get any photos taken because I had a muffin top.


Years later, as an adult woman now, I can see that these things weren't my fault.  And you know what?   It wasn't the women I surrounded myself with's fault either.  These behaviors are programmed in us as young girls and it's just a self fulfilling prophecy that keeps carrying on and on for generations.  As women, we are taught that our value is in numbers.  How much do we weigh? What is the measurement of our hips, our bra size? How old are we? What if we valued our flaws and saw them as trophies?

My beautiful mother has scars all over her body from her fight with cancer .  Her breasts are in a lot worse shape now than they were when I was a child kicking my legs back and forth on the toilet seat as I watched her cut them down, I'll tell you that.  But to me? They're more beautiful than ever.  They show her strength and her courage.  Women who have just had babies are the most beautiful to me.  Not post baby workout miracle photos, but women.  Women who have just brought life into this world should be celebrated for the miracle they have created, not cut down for breasts sagging, or a little extra pudge.  We put so much pride and focus in "losing the baby weight" instead of celebrating new life.  You just created a person! The gym can wait! I have stretch marks that crawl up the side of my hips.  I acquired these when I was going through puberty and I shot up.  I thought "How cool! I got so tall, my body can't keep up with me!" until I was told what they were, and that I was to be ashamed of abnormalities on my body.

I can't help but feel sad for the women in my family.  At one point, every single female relative of mine that I have spoken to about this has had some form of an eating disorder.  Certain members claim to have been anorexic for years on end, others were bingers, purgers, and most have been on some form of a restricted calorie or insane fad diet for most of their lives.  I am so grateful to have found veganism, and had the thirst for knowledge in healing my body, but as well as my mind.  Every day is a struggle for me still, and I am working on deprogramming my negative thoughts.

I have banned scales in my home.  I think they are evil for someone like me who has spent most of her life being criticized for their weight.  However, I was house sitting recently and couldn't help but notice my arch enemy sitting next to the toilet...the scale.  I was having a wonderful day prior to this moment.  I had intended on sitting by their pool, eating some green stuff, and taking time for myself.  My day was almost so perfect that cartoon bluebirds were about to be singing on my shoulder like in a Disney movie until I saw the number.  My life was over. It didn't matter that everything was looking up, how great my friends are, how much love and support I have in my life, the fact my hair was rocking that day, or even that I had new records in my possession (which usually always cheers me up). Nope.  I had put on the weight equivalent of a small shih-tzu, and I was through.

However, instead of doing what I wanted to do and go hide my feelings in another pint of almond dream (OH, GOD! That stuff is goooood) I reached out to my support group--my friends.  They reminded me of the emotional battle I had been through, how strong I was, and how it was perfectly normal to have picked up a few pounds here and there.  They helped get me back on track not because they were concerned about how I looked, but how I felt.  And there is the biggest difference.  

As I started to tear up at the number on the scale, I had a thought.  What if it were never programmed into my brain that I was never going to be good enough?  What if I had been told from Day 1 that I was perfect as I was?  What if I hadn't been exposed to photoshopped images, and TV, and all the other nonsense that makes us as women feel less than?  What if I were taught to have a beautiful mind, and to cherish my talents and abilities instead of the circumference of my thighs? What if...just what if...as little girls, sitting on the tops of toilets watching our mothers get ready, that we got to hear the words "I. Am. Beautiful." instead? What if they reminded us that we are souls with bodies, not bodies with souls? 

Today, I showered as usual, and walked back into my room to stand in front of the mirror.  I dropped my towel and had a good, hard look.  I saw my freckles, my bruises (because I am not perfect.  I am clumsy), my scars, my chipped toenails...all of it.  And instead of going into autopilot, I just thought: That's Payton.

(That's Payton, alright. Twelve years after being a ballet school dropout, she still can't touch her toes. Working on it!)

And there's only one person well equipped enough for that job.

Like A Rolling Stone: Record Collecting and Religion

Hey, readers!

Well, May is upon us.  It's the time of pollen, ragweed, sundresses, oh, and Spring cleaning.
I had more or less become a hoarder in the last three months.  I was using my house as a giant closet that I sometimes showered in, preferring the company of my friends and their couches to being alone in my humble abode.  There were shoes scattered all about in every corner, records strewn all about, dishes stacked up, and then the room.  THE room.  The second room that was originally intended to be my now not so significant other's recording studio...THAT one.  I had a blip of hope where I was going to turn it into a closet, but instead decided to rent it out for the extra cash, and to bring some new energy into this place.

The only man of the house. 

The last few weeks in my life have been absolutely insane.  I have taken care of sick friends, had relatives (as in more than one) get diagnosed with various ailments, a few financial hurdles to overcome, and a lot of stuff on my mind.  To say I felt completely frazzled is an understatement.  I felt like a tree with no roots...the exact opposite of grounded.


So, I did what usually works. I dumped all of my records in the floor and sat in the middle of them.  I knew that some of them had been swiped in my previous encounter, so I wanted to make sure what was still here.  I took each one out and lovingly cleaned each side, listened to each and every track, and then proceeded to catalog. Yeah, as in, I made a spreadsheet of what I have...with notes. As in "Mono, UK. Scratch halfway through Track 3 side 2, water damage cover---still playable, with all inserts." It sounds terribly nerdy, because it is.

Of course, in the process of the great reorganization, I discovered what had been taken.  They say "You  don't know what you've got until you lose it." and that was certainly the case for me. I thought about what this meant....

For anyone who has known me long enough, it's common knowledge that I love my records more than I love most people.  I seldom can avoid pulling over any time I know that there is even a vendor inside an antique store...even if it's just to look.  These are moments I live for.  When I pull out a record from a bin tucked away in some dingy and dusty old back room, and I know that within those grooves lies magic,  it gives me chills. It makes me high.  It even hurts sometimes...the exquisite pain...sometimes to the point of feeling like my chest is going to burst open. I have often spent my last money on records instead of food.  Records feed me more.

Some people can tell when they've undergone emotional turmoil by their weight fluctuating, their house becoming a contender for an episode of "Hoarders", a half hearted attempt at getting out of bed most days....and yes, these were all true for me, but I knew something was seriously wrong with me when I didn't even want to go to the record store, and wouldn't even bother lifting the needle to drop a glorious piece of wax down on my table.  With my house in a terrible state of disarray, laundry piled up higher than Mount Everest, and dishes from food I didn't even remember eating leftover still sitting in the sink, I did what was best for me.  I pulled everything out, and started over.  I forced myself to sit in the floor of this house that had become a millstone around my neck, and make amends with my children.

As I underwent my project, I thought back to a moment I had shared with my family on Easter Sunday.  Being the good daughter I try to be, I got dressed up and went to church with them because that's what my mother had requested.  As we drove back to their house, my mom made a comment about people who don't believe in Jesus.  I bit my tongue, knowing that religion is a hot topic for anyone, especially in the south.  When the concept of someone going to Hell was brought up, I did speak up and say "Well, it's not really up to you to decide, is it?" and that started the "Well, WHAT are you, then? Buddhist? Atheist? WHAT?" To which my response was "Look, no one really knows.  We are all in this together.  And we'll all find out when we get there."  Broad, vague, generic.  The whole concept of religion is so personal, and I never like to attack whatever gets somebody through the night. When asked if there was a God in the Christian sense, my response was "Look, I don't know what.  No one does.  But I know there's something bigger than me out there, and I call it God. But it's not up to me to cut someone down for what they feel, or to tell them that they are going to your concept of Hell.  It's just not."  To which I was prodded with "Well, if you're so smart, how do YOU KNOW that there's something out there?"I wanted to tell her, I really did.  But I knew it would sound so terribly foreign to someone who doesn't "get it."

I wanted to tell her I knew that there was something bigger than me out there because of the nights I have stayed up sitting in between my speakers listening to the same song over and over again.  I know there's something greater than me because of the way my body reacts to that third cup of coffee at 3 AM and I'm washed over by the sounds of one of my old friends.

My nights. Every night. 

Maybe it's consistency that comforts me.  The fact that this disc was around long before I was, and if I play my cards right, will be around long after I am gone. The songs I listen to now sounded just the same as they did when I was ten, and fifteen, and twenty, and will always.  For someone who's life has been a giant question mark as long as I could remember, the fact that these will never change is such a source of comfort.  Between that, and the way my brain reacts to the noises that come out of these old speakers that I can only relate to the greatest high?  The fact that something that others deem noise was the only thing that made me feel not alone, and that everything was going to be ok? The nights where you revisit something you've heard literally hundreds of times and it can still make you feel so in love that it hurts? That is how I know there is something bigger than me out there.  

And they must really really dig me.

Happy listening, rock n rollers. May the power of tunes compel you.