A Little Bit Toxic, A Little Bit Rock-and-Roll
I've been sitting in a lot of discomfort this week. That probably means that next week will be fantastic.
As I’ve been working hard to slow down, take inventory of my projects and my schedule, and develop healthier routines to manage my anxiety (and my possible work addiction), I’ve been startled by how emptiness seems to be creeping in, taking the place of the hustle I am intentionally shooing away. But this is progress, right?
I don’t necessarily see this as a bad thing, or even a depressing one. I wrote the other day about boredom, and what to do instead of it (ICYMI, the answer is to write Bette Midler a fan letter). Boredom aside (sorry, Bette), the forces that lie beneath any habit we have that might be a little bit toxic (cigarettes, gambling, continuing to engage with asshole exes, binge-watching This Is Us even though it’s 2am) can be profound. It doesn’t take Dr. Freud (or even Dr. Oz) to tell you that we developed these toxic relationships in the first place for a good reason. And though I promise not to go all faux-analyst on you, it’s for sure true that as we start to confront and change these well-worn habits, there might be a little bit of darkness underneath.
Think of your toxic habits as a giant rock. It is stuck, firmly planted in the place where it’s been for so long, not going anywhere anytime soon. Until you have a reason to move it—like maybe you want to build an adorable tiny home on the foundation beneath it, but that damn rock is right in the middle of your living room. So you push it and kick it with all your might, and maybe even you get some friends to help you shove it to the side (because you can’t always move this big shit by yourself). Finally, it budges, and beneath that rock are a bunch of worms (sorry for disturbing you, little guys). Once they scamper away, you touch that fresh soil, and it feels cold and kind of damp. Unlike the sun-worn dirt around it, this dirt is pitch black; it hasn’t seen the sun in so long. But finally, despite the darkness and the difficulty it took to get there, you have your new foundation. Before you get started building that tiny home of your dreams, however, you might want to take a little rest. I’m sure your muscles are sore from all that hard work moving the rock in the first place. The fresh earth you uncovered is not going anywhere. Your IG-ready #tinyhouse can wait, and so can you.
As I’m navigating through this new mindset about how I go about my work—with calmness, focus, and dare I say faith (in an atheist sort of way)—I am definitely feeling the age-old existential angst arising.
At 41—and after a long life of relentlessly focusing on what’s next (college, a cross-country move, the next episode of This Is Us) instead of what is (which is usually pretty adorable, since I live in a house full of tiny old dogs)—I’m finally confronting what it means to sit in place. And it’s making me antsy.
At the beginning of this piece, I joked “this is progress, right?,” but, I mean, it is. Literally everything I’ve ever accomplished in my life—from starting a non-profit that is still going strong 11 years later, to getting a first book deal and then a second, to facing my inner-demons so that I can become kinder, better, and stronger—required both risk and deep discomfort. That said, I’m sure that when I was in the middle of those things, I didn’t recognize them as such. All I probably felt during those times I was in the weeds with creating new projects and new mindsets was exhaustion, some fear, and probably some glimmers of excitement.
I write to you now from that uncomfortable place. It feels familiar to me, but only in that dream-like, vague way. I have a feeling I’ve been here before, though I don’t recall the details.
I’ve been bored, I’ve been teary, I’ve been yearning, I’ve been leery. I’ve been searching, I’ve been trying, I’ve been terrified of dying. I’ve taken risks, I’ve taken chances, I’ve ignored the passing glances. I’ve been angry, I’ve been reeling, in this too-familiar feeling.
Oh my God. I didn’t mean for that to come out in rhyme. Please forgive me. I actually think in rhyme sometimes, despite my attempts not to. It’s super weird.
But then, every time I sit in this discomfort that I’m in right now—which almost always co-exists with some kind of self-imposed self-growth (such as this here Operation Make Jasmin Happier)—the angst leads to a breakthrough. A letting go of a toxic habit or pattern or mindset, followed by a burst of energy and then a new project or way of relating to the world (and to myself).
It’s like I just moved that giant rock out of the way and my muscles are sore. I’m staring at the new foundation and waiting to build something—like that tiny house—but I can’t until I’ve healed a little bit more.
Waiting (for my next book to sell, for my next home to be finalized, for the next episode of This Is Us) is not my strong suit.
I am sure that I developed this impatience when I was a young child and so many life things that happened in between rehearsals for my plays or writing my poems (I used to actually write them on purpose) was hard, even intolerable. I didn’t develop the coping mechanisms I wish I had—not until my thunderous thirties, when I created a situation that left me no choice but to tear it all down and start again. It was one of the most difficult periods I’ve been through (spurred by the death of my beloved grandma), and though in retrospect I wish I had been a shit-ton calmer and more intentional about how I made my choices, the outcome of my self-destruction forced me to sit in The Greatest Discomfort Of My Life.
That experience made me break through any preconceived ideas that hustling to get shit done—or insert-an-addictive-behavior-here—can override the need to pause, and yes, suffer to some extent, in order to grow. It is the true definition of discomfort: the discomfort of letting your muscle tears heal in the same way that you need to let your emotional tears heal. We can’t keep re-tearing them with work hustle or whatever, or we’ll just break.
Or even scarier, maybe we won’t break at all; maybe we’ll just keep doing the same toxic thing for the rest of our lives, depriving ourselves of a deeper, richer, gentler experience.
Back when I was writing my memoir, I read another memoir—Blackout by the great Sarah Hepola—about her battle with alcoholism. One of the most profound parts of it for me was that she described an instance where she wasn’t exactly at her “bottom,” but rather, she became concerned that there wouldn’t necessarily ever be a bottom. In other words, she questioned whether her life would be filled with this tapped-out experience, where her alcohol consumption resulted in her being unable to reach true serenity. She might always feel shitty in the morning because of last night’s drinking. She might use her addiction as a way to keep people away. It was that revelation that ultimately became paramount to her decision to stop drinking altogether. And yes, she sat in a whole lot of discomfort for a while after she stopped.
By the way, small aside: In the days before my 2016 memoir came out, I emailed Sarah Hepola a fan letter (I had a lot of practice from all those years of writing to Bette Midler). I told her my memoir was coming out and I was scared of what that could mean for my life, to have it so transparent and publicly available. It was such a weird feeling, so … uncomfortable.
When I heard back from her—this ridiculously talented author I loved and admired—it was like I had heard back from, I dunno, God (I’m saying this in an atheist way too, for the record). Not that I idolized her exactly, but I certainly didn’t think she’d reply. And let’s just say that when she did, I plotzed. Here’s some of what Sarah Hepola told me:
Oh friend, I feel your pain. I don't think I've ever come unglued like I did in the final weeks before the book came out. It's all so goddamn scary, and exciting, and ultimately out of your control. Maybe it gives you a small measure of comfort to know that many people have walked across these hot coals and made it out alive, and you will too. You have done a beautiful and important thing: You have written a book. YOUR book. People will read it, and find strength and comfort from your words. Maybe a year from now, a baby Jasmin will even reach out to you and say: What would Jasmin do? And you will think to yourself, "What Jasmin did was to freak the fuck out."
Reading that now, more than five years later, brings tears to my eyes. It reminds me that we are all connected in ways we don’t understand. That the grief, pain, and discomfort we feel is not unique; others have been there, done that, and lived to tell the tale.
I find hope and focus in that. Many of these people allowed their discomfort to propel them to grow. But they didn’t do that by taking another drink when it was uncomfortable not to. They didn’t grow by sending another email when they had finally decided enough was enough with the unending demands from their work. Or by texting their ex instead of moving on.
They grew by understanding that the discomfort they were feeling was a paramount part of changing, growing, and allowing space for what was next.
This has been a hard week for me, and until I wrote this, I haven’t been able to pin down why, exactly. I went from last week’s boredom to this week’s malaise. I struggled with getting through the days and the week, even though there was so much goodness baked in—goodness I recognized and soaked up. It was still hard. It was hard to do my work, hard to turn it off, hard to figure out what to do with myself once I’d turned it off. It was hard to wait to hear back from my agent, hard to wait to hear back from the net-zero community where my family and I hope to move. It was hard to show up and be present with my board work, with my creative work, with my jobs, and with my personal growth. But I forged ahead anyway, because that’s just what time makes you do.
And now it’s Friday and I’m relieved—not only because the weekend is here, but because I’m reminded of how discomfort leads to growth. I can choose to find solace in the familiarity of this feeling and the understanding that it always, always passes. And once it does, I am better for it.
xo,
jazz
One Thing I’m Jazzed About
Queer-friendly barbers. When I lived in LA, I was a regular at queer-owned Folklore. When I was last in London, I enjoyed a new ‘do at trans-friendly Open Barbers. And now that I’m hanging my hat in upstate New York, this weekend I’ll be heading to Albany’s Center Square Barber Shop. I can’t recommend enough that you support your local queer barber (whether or not you’re queer). For the longest time, my frequently asymmetrical, somewhat shaved hairstyle warranted me seeing a barber, not a stylist. So I found myself going into whatever barbershop I could find, which often resulted in some cross-eyed looks (and more than one instance of being turned away because I wasn’t a dude). At queer-friendly barbers, I feel safe, supported, and seen. If it sounds weird to you to use those adjectives regarding a hair place, well, that might be something for you to noodle on. And at the same time as I see these inclusive spots as safe spaces, as a femme-presenting, cis white woman, I am also keenly aware of how much harder it would be for someone else who doesn’t have those glaring privileges I have. The point is to open your hearts, your minds, and your wallets to support marginalized communities and the artists, makers, do-gooders, and workers within them. Doing so is a revolutionary act.