The me's inside of me

There are so many me's inside of me

Don't know who to chose or who to be.

The shy, the carful, the anxiety-prone awareful

Usually in charge of all the rest

The crazy, the wild one, the unrestrained child one

Is the me I try to put to rest

There are so many me's inside of me

Don't know who to chose or who to be.

The healer, the feeler, the unconscious receiver

Is the me I fear most of them all

The partygirl,  the sexy, the raving freak within me

I can't always control that part of me

There are so many me's inside of me

Don't know who to chose or who to be.

The student, the perfectionist, the self-critical judgementalist 

Seems to be the safest me to be

The artist, the writer, the unfulfilled creator

Is the me I never give time to breathe...

There are so many me's inside of me

If only one controls I can't be free

There are so many me's inside of me

I hope one day they'll find some unity

Sexual misfortune

Sometimes, I use fortune cookies as oracles. 

At the end of a delightful mixed veggie dish, the moment of truth appeared. 

The fortune cookie landed on the table in front of me, and I felt tingling inside. 

This time my question emerged from recurring dreams in which I hang out with old lovers, waiting for us to have sex, while nothing ever happens. (Besides me waking up thinking, ah, that's just awesome, even my dream-self ain't getting any). 

I carefully worded my question to the cookie "what will happen in my sexual life from now on?"

I could have gotten something like "you will be prosperous", "something good will happen to you tomorrow", "you will meet an old friend", or even "you have good health." But no. Oh no, this cookie knew. It got down to business, and used its magical powers to compose a striking reply. 

I cracked it open, and could feel its mocking tone from the first couple of words. 

The message written in blue (a hint towards my mental state if the cookie's words of wisdom come true?) on white read:

"Expect much of yourself and little of others."

Wow, looks like I'm in for an exciting winter. Thank you, cookie dearest, you made my day..!

                             

The hardest yoga class...

...I ever rolled my mat out for was a restorative one.
Wait, aren't those easy and relaxing, you might think.
Easy, sure.
Relaxing? Hell no.

The longest 90 minutes of my life nearly killed me.
At least it left me with severe burns, and a renewed hatred for my flickering mind.

"Now, hold this pose for five minutes." The charming yoga-teacher dude uttered with his hypnotic voice. Five minutes? Do you have any idea how many seconds that is, or how many thoughts gladly buzz forth to fill that vacuum of movement?

300 seconds, and 549 unwanted thoughts later we finally moved again, "effortlessly sliding over to the other side, to repeat the soothing stretch." To accompany the second side of annoyance, the teacher placed a hot stone on our side body.

Originally, the plan had been to attend hot yoga at three, not hot-stone-on-naked-skin at eight. Therefore, my clothes consisted of an inappropriate selection of tiny orange shorts and an even tinier black sports-bra.

As the stone burned through my skin, I think I finally reached one-pointed focus of attention. The thoughts drastically reduced, and now centered solely on "is this supposed to hurt? Holy shit, this hurts like hell!" Since restorative yoga falls into the box of things I don't understand yet, I assumed this pain was all part of the supposedly soothing sensations of the practice. I laid still, kept my mouth shut, and resisted any internal desire to remove the rock.

Upon leaving what felt like days of facing-your-inner-demons-practice, I ran around the corner and screamed. Then I jumped down the street, waiving my arms like a crazy person. Guess I needed to confirm my aliveness.

The next step to regaining my sanity came through blasting the car-stereo with System of a Down. As I howled along with the lyrics, the clarity of my mind opened space for an emerging sense of bliss.

Perhaps creating "May-Linn's Metal Mania" should be my next endeavor on the yoga front? A class where jumping frantically, headbanging, and screaming "wraaaaaaahh" naturally completes each cycle of sun salutation. Such a practice might finally conquer my uneasy mind. At the very least, I would emerge burn-mark free, with a charming new hairdo.

Splendid Sunday

On the morning of my third toilet-less day, the urge came upon me to leave the house as soon as my feet hit the ground. I threw on some rags, a pair of shoes, and the biggest, blackest sunglasses I could find, and stumbled out the door. Destination: Whole Foods.

As so often happens at that store, I ended up crawling out with a whole lot of food, and a whole lot less money left for the upcoming week than previously planned. So what, I deserved to enjoy myself. Other aspects of existence weren't exactly smiling at me, so I needed something to elevate my mood.

Smoked salmon spread. Egg bagel. Carefully selected salad. Iced coffee. $5.99 chocolate from a country I can't pronounce. I placed myself at the center of my feast, and started indulging. After a few seconds, an unwelcomed guest joined me, followed by his drooling friend. Don't get me wrong, I love animals, it's just that I'm never sure if dogs evoke a rash, breathing difficulties, or eat my food. Quite frequently, all three.

The third time they came over, I removed my headset and looked the owner straight in the eye. A pretty standard hippie-hipster kinda guy. He mumbled something like "I'm sorry if the dogs are bothering you."  By some unexplainable reason I noticed the goodness in his eyes, and said "I think it's wonderful you let them run free, all dogs should be free." "That's what I think to" he said, and smiled. Meanwhile, the inner voice screamed "oh, fuck!" And just like that, my smoked salmon spread mysteriously disappeared.

Shortly after, the dude and the dogs disappeared. Finally, peace to enjoy my $5.99 chocolate, and Jung's biography which I'd been dying to read again for the last two years. In my side vision, I notice a male figure laying his body dangerously close to mine. My thoughts calmed me by illuminating the fact that its probably all in my head, and I need to stop being so full of myself. After moving his shirtless, hairy body closer to mine three times, without evoking a response in me, he stood up, blocked the sun, and signaled for me to remove my headset. "Can I talk to you?" "Eh...eh...I guess so.." I mumbled. He sat back down and started sharing his life story. Turns out the reason he needed a bottle of vodka at 12 pm came from his Scottish heritage, he had a master's degree in something he couldn't remember, and a girlfriend which apparently somehow justified his attempts to grab me. In between every unnecessary piece of information, he asked whether he could touch my legs, or thighs, or ass. Preferably all three.

After half an hour of uncomfortable dialogue, I took my set of untouched legs and marched home.

Back at the apartment, I noticed a rotten stench. To my unpleasant surprise, the bathroom and kitchen floor were covered in sewer water. Where there used to be a toilet, there was now a hole. A big, brown hole in the floor. I packed a backpack, failed my attempt to stop hyperventilating, and left the stench behind. Ready to see what other adventures this splendid Sunday had in store for me.

Karma, you gotta love it..!

I don't know exactly when it began, but I suspect it stared when the bus driver pulled over at Point Richmond to give us the message "this has never happened before." Turns out the bus lost all its power due to something unexplainable, leaving us waiting for a new one for forty minutes without AC on the hottest day so far in the East Bay. As I noticed drops of sweat running down my back, I started laughing. My desperate attempt to impress my new friend by showing up ten minutes early, failed. Big time. I ended up arriving thirty minutes late, distressed, and soaked. Oh, the delights of public transportation!

On my way back home, I get a call from my landlord. Turns out my clogged toilet, which I assumed would gladly receive any biofuel upon my return, still refuses to co-operate. Trying to be ladylike, I had of course resisted the desire to make use of my new friends bathroom. Big mistake. Thankfully, a great friend swooped me away to the closest bar within an hour. Where we stayed until the lights came on.

Then came the return to my Oakland home. Due to an alcohol consumption slightly above average, I suspect my friend no longer trusted my coordinates. Instead, she used  the new map function on her phone. Even bigger mistake. Suddenly, we were on a bridge. Wait a minute, there is no bridge over to my house. We're going to San Francisco! What!? It took us two rounds over the water, before I finally got back to my bed. By that time I needed to use the bathroom again.

The most expensive letters...ever..!

I just paid $43573 for two letters.

I'm not kidding. 

That comes down to $21786,5 for each one of those lowsy little letters. 

Do I feel different now, as I proudly insert two tokens of mastery at the end of my name? 

I wish I could say yes. By the gods, how I wish I could say yes! 

Give a long elaboration of the magical stardust attached to the title. Share how my system tingles with excitement each time I add the proof of my most expensive, time-consuming endeavor to my name. Tell tales of people nodding with approval and acknowledgment to my achievement. 

Honestly, I am exactly the same. People treat me exactly the same. 

No, wait a minute, that's not true:

I am 2 years older. 

Basically broke.

20 pounds heavier.

I live in a smaller apartment. With uneven floors, a clogged toilet, and the tiniest dishwasher in the history of man. 

I filled two bookshelves, and a box with books serving as dust-collectors.

Through personal experience, I know that crow's feet not only refers to the features of a bird. 

I can't see the writings on the board any more, but I still hold on to the idea of having perfect vision (which my eye doctor told me at 18, when I wanted purple contacts).

And somehow I've convinced myself that two isn't enough. I need a third one to soothe my ego. Instantly. Maybe I'm addicted to education? I wonder if that's listed in the DSM IV? 

A PhD before thirty sounds so damn good. 

And we all know that all good things are three, right? 

Those three letters will probably get the whole world to read my books. 

Make undergrads bow down at my feet. 

Have god send me an instant dose of Botox while I sleep.

Clean the toilet.

Make dinner.

Expand the apartment.

And allow me to magically wake up with purple eyes and a hawk's vision.

- May-Linn Hammer M.A. 

Save me from myself

Bipolar. 

Divided. 

Sick. 

Misfit.

Incomplete.

Incapable.

Invalid. 

Oh, the struggles I take on to redeem myself from this label.

I exhaust myself every day to heal myself from myself, because some dude in a white coat decided to put the stamp of incurable mental illness on my forehead.  

My essence is flawed. I came into this world with a strong desire to experience all the facets of humanness. Instead I'm confined to a restricted spectrum of supposed normality. 

I believe in the people who tell me to fear the things that makes me me. 

I no longer trust my inner compass and wisdom. 

My deep emotions, and vibrating sensations hold no value in this world. 

Instead of following my inner guide, and celebrating my true nature, I've built a bulletproof cage around my psyche. 

Daily routines. Endless self-help workshops. Watching out for alcohol. Being vary of sensory stimulation. Sleep, sleep, sleep. A thousand books. Five-hundred articles. Herbs. Organic foods. Everything to dissolve my manic moods.