Sleepless in Mohegan Lake

It was a moment I’ll never forget.

                It was a Friday or Saturday night, and my then boyfriend and I were at his cousin’s house just outside Albany.  My routine was to drive two hours nearly every Friday after work and spend the weekend with him.  He had his kids on Saturday, so it was easier for me to come to him, a gesture he never appreciated in the time we were together.  On the contrary, he acted like he was doing me a favor by allowing me to visit.

                Sitting by the fire at his cousin’s house drinking beers and bullshitting was our weekend ritual.

                The topic unexpectedly turned to my writing.  The previous week, I’d emailed my boyfriend a copy of my novel, a dark piece tentatively titled Cabin in the Woods, about two teenage girls murdering a friend.  After reading it, he called me and said “This was disturbing. I’m freaked out by you and not sure I want to date you anymore.”

                I was alarmed.  Our relationship was shiny and new, only three months along, filled with promise.  I saw a future with him.  “Okay,” I said.  “I won’t write that stuff anymore.”

                 I was making a choice, a future as his wife, filled with family, versus a lonely one as a writer.  It was an easy decision to make in the first blush of infatuation.

                I thought we’d dropped the topic, but now, as they guzzled beers, he said to his cousin’s girlfriend, “Tell her what you think about her writing.”

                She pointed at me and, shaking her head for emphasis, yelled, “I would never read the stuff you write!”  It was said to me angrily, as if I’d done something wrong.

                I felt betrayed.  I was still shy about sharing my writing, and doing it with him was an intimate act, something private.  I was sharing a piece of myself.  It upset me that he’d gone and discussed it with her.  It was like I’d committed some wrong, admitted it, tried to make amends, and he still went and bitched about me to mutual friends.

                “I never asked you to,” I replied.

                “Well, I wouldn’t!  No one wants to read that stuff.”

                “I’m not writing anymore,” I said.

                “You shouldn’t,” she replied.

                This encounter happened in May of 2012.  Nearly seven years later, that scene is heavily tinged with what the fuck.  I remember how I felt, sitting there by the crackling fire.  Small, pathetic, and weak.  I knew deep down that I was betraying myself, and for what?  A loser who couldn’t get it together, not even enough to divorce his wife after she left him for someone else, who couldn’t hold down a job,  didn’t pay any of his bills and lived with his parents, but was always, always, free with his judgments and criticism when it came to me.  Everything I did was wrong.

                That scene replayed itself in my mind when I began publishing.  I could picture them by the fire, my now ex with a different woman, mocking my efforts.

                 I’m reasonably certain that very scenario took place, that they laughed, that my ex said things like she’ll never blah blah blah she’s just not smart enough blah blah blah.

                I doubt they’re laughing at me now.

                Fast forward two years later and I found myself in a similar scenario, with a boyfriend (who turned out to be hiding the fact that he’s married, btw) telling me, “You’ll never be an author.”

                By then, I’d grown a backbone.  “Watch me,” I said. 

                I am both proud of myself for not listening to them and ashamed that I once did, that I wasn’t true to myself.  And that I stuck around awaiting further evidence that they were toxic people who didn’t have my best interests at heart.

                A few days ago, I woke up with an idea for a book already formed in my mind.  I am eternally grateful to whatever muse throws up ideas when I’m asleep.  Throughout the day, as I drove to work, and went about my tasks, I kept turning over the idea, processing it, filling in the characters and the scenarios.  When I came home, I ran it by my boyfriend.

                He said, “That’s a fantastic idea.”

                I was completely blown away.  I’d expected him to trash it.  I already had various defenses as to why this idea would work ready. 

                I said, “I thought you would stomp on it.”

                “Why?” he said.  “Why would you think I would do that?”

                The answer, of course, was because everyone always did.  Every previous boyfriend.  My sister, who made a face when I told her the plot of The Playground and said, “Who would want to read that?  Such depressing subject matter.”  Then when I told her the plot of Woman Scorned said, “yet another inspirational uplifting book.” 

                I stopped telling her about my books.

                Or the friend who snapped, “that’s been done before,” when I told him an idea I had for a book about a mother and daughter who go to vacation on Cape Cod.

                It was so rare that anyone thought I had a good idea that it was shocking.

                My boyfriend said, “You know, in the past I used to be someone who would find something negative to say, but I’ve decided that’s not the person I want to be anymore.”

                I’ve come to realize the same.  Growing up with a chronically depressed parent, I was bombarded with negativity.  Finding things to complain about was our number one family activity, and it’s an excellent way to bond with others.  Even now, I’ve made new friends by complaining about the president.

                A lot of families were like mine.  A lot of kids were raised to be chronic complainers.  But, here’s the thing, you need to put a lid on it.  Complaining about your own life is one thing.  You must draw the line at infecting others with your negativity.  You should never tell someone they won’t achieve anything just because you don’t feel you will.

                That’s what is behind this toxicity, your own feeling of underachievement.  This happens when you look at other people’s pursuit of their dreams as being a commentary on you, when you make it about you.  It’s not. 

                When you’re on the giving end of this kind of toxicity, you feel that you’re being honest.  That you’re saying these things for someone’s own good.  You may almost feel that you’re defending yourself from them.  That they’re attacking you somehow.  Hence, the snapping and the anger, the “who do you think you are,” aspect to their statements.  The fear.

                Almost like, “if this is who you are, who am I?”

                I know it well, because, I too, was once a dream stomper.  It was an automatic knee-jerk response to someone reaching for the stars.

                You know what being exposed to so much negativity has taught me?  I want to be someone who encourages people to chase their dreams, not the person who points out all the reasons they’ll fail.  The one who motivates someone to keep trying. I don’t want to be one of the hundreds of people who told the star they’d never get there.

                Instead of being threatened by someone pursuing their dreams, we can use them to inspire us.  Heck, if they can chase their dreams, so can you!  A lot of us have been hardwired to be satisfied with minimum effort from our own lives.  Whenever you find yourself threatened by someone else reaching for the stars, that’s a reminder that we could all be doing so much more with our lives.  We choose our paths through life.  Don’t let your only lasting contribution be an ugly footnote in some successful person’s history, as one of the many naysayers. 

                Be one of the people who inspire success in others.

                 I’ve had plenty of those people in my life, and if not for them, I may not be where I am today.  I will never forget that.  When that scene before the fire begins to play in my head, I replace the tape with the encouraging words of so many of my former classmates who read The Playground, or the words of my boyfriend who proudly introduces me to people as an author.  You’ve all taught me who I want to be, and the naysayers? 

                They’ve become just a footnote.