Drop-Shipping All Over my Life

I recently applied for a job with a Chilean drop-shipping company. For those of you who don't know (just as I didn't right before I applied), drop-shipping occurs when a company sells a product and then sources it externally. Many items sold on e-bay are drop shipped: the seller prices and lists the item, and when you buy it the seller then buys that item from the wholesaler or retail chain. The seller does not keep the stock but instead transfers the customer orders and shipment details to either the manufacturer or wholesaler, who then ships the good. Retailers profit on the difference between the prices.

This process is only possible due to the technology of international trade today and the fact that some markets are completely lacking in a product so there is no deflationary competition in prices. For the retailer, risk lies in ordering the product; if the wholesaler has backlogged the product then the retailer has to wait to fulfill the sale. For the customer, risk lies in the middle-man. If drop-shippers unduly inflate the price or (knowingly or unknowingly) buy from another drop-shipping middle man, by the time the product reaches the consumer it can be multiple times its original price. They might pay a fee for a fee for a fee.

As I learned more about drop-shipping, I began to think about myself as a consumer, my soul as a wholesaler, and all the drop-shipping done during the judgments and bad habits in between. My soul is the supplier of my values, hopes, and dreams. My actions are the consumer, the thing that uses those resources to affect change (hopefully, to better my life). When I spend time judging my dreams and thoughts, it's like inflating them with greater fees. Each judgment is the middle man that gets in the way of buying at the proper price from the direct source. The amount of drop-shippers that I might use before finally receiving my value are infinite. I can judge about judging and then feel the corresponding emotions. Having a drop-shipping agent in between my soul and my actions alters the flow, creates new supply chains that actually intervene on true efficiency. And it means I pay a much higher price than my internal economy can sustain.

Lo and behold, I didn't get the job. The drop-shipper wasn't willing to drop-ship a work Visa from Chile to me. After analyzing drop-shipping the way that I did, I can't say I'm all that bummed. I don't think it's a business model that works.

Josey's Life

Across the street from me there is a little white house with a green door and shady front porch. It's set back from the street, smaller than the two gardened mini-mansions next to it. If you weren't paying attention you might mistake it for a large shrub. In fact, it belongs to a fabulous old woman named Josey. Josey is my friend.

One morning I saw Josey out her in yard hobbling around as she watered her plants. I immediately wanted to meet her. Later that evening I was running out of the house when I saw Josey and John, her next-door-neighbor, sitting on her stairs playing with the dogs. They waved me over and a half hour later I was totally in love.

Josey has lived in that little white house almost her entire life. When I introduced myself she told me that she would always remember me because she used to have a friend named Emily who lived a few houses down. One summer they got caught stealing peaches from the house on the corner. They ate the peaches anyway, and she said they tasted horrible. She never stole another peach.

Josey graduated from East High School in 1938, back in the day when it was still all white kids. She worked in the financial office of the Montgomery Ward that used to be on 6th and Broadway. After 30 more years working in accounting for the Air Force, she finally retired.

I'm unsure of when she left and returned to that house but am positive that she is grateful to be there. She told me about a time when she needed surgery and had to live in a nursing home while recovering. With disgust she walked me through the days there: they woke up and waited around for breakfast, and then were walked to a group where they were given something to do, then waited for lunch, then the next group, so on and so forth. They could only choose certain foods and had to wake up early and go to bed early. No one really knew each other. Most people didn't want to be there.

I said, "I know exactly what you mean." Although I refrained from telling her how.

After sitting with Josey and the neighbors on another night, I'm having a hard time getting her out of my mind. I find it so fascinating that she's lived in that same house almost her entire life. She's watched Colfax change, witnessed wars' affect on the area, and seen kids like me move in and out. She still wore her rad 1970's bell bottoms that she sewed herself. I respect Josey immensely and think it fantastic that she's kept that little house. I honor her pride in maintaining it.

But when I really got to thinking I realized something strange: even though I find her life so dignified I would absolutely never choose it. Why is it that I can be so inspired by Josey's life choices as I chastise myself for still being in Denver, still being dependent on my parents, not living in some foreign country and making a million dollars? Living as Josey does incites me to invent choking analogies. And yet being Josey is wholly awesome.

I got to thinking about how it would be if I chose to stay in Denver. Really, would it be that bad? What would it say about me as a person if I never lived in a foreign country or learned to speak three more languages?

I don't think it would say anything about me as a person. What it would say is everything about the multitude of paths life can take. I crave to go abroad because I am curious and adventure-full and always will be. However, while I was in treatment I explored the alley behind the hospital like it was central China and the expanse of my own mind like it was deep in an Andean jungle. Exploration happens anywhere and everywhere; there is nothing about travel that makes one more willing to explore. True, when you travel you will probably be slapped in the face by things you don't quite understand and that can induce the sort of learning that exploration provides. Travel is only as much as you make it, just like your own front yard.

It's incredibly relieving to realize that I have another option. I can live here forever and I will still be me. I can explore whatever feels right. Still, I'm gettin' the heck outta' here. I know that I've got a lot of life outside of the four corners of this state and sandy beaches of this country. I'm healthy, I'm worthy, and I'm excited. The difference now is that I don't feel like my success is measured upon my travel and what I do there. I've activated the mechanism in myself that allows for honest choice. With choice and options failure is impossible. I'm thrilled to undertake the journey.

I love that Josey and her little abode are right outside my window. I think I'll pick Josey some fresh flowers from the house on the corner. I hope I [don't] get caught.

"Petty"

This is Petty (Tom). Not me.

I just received a message from an old friend, and they used the term "petty" to describe the life I once had. "Petty" is a word I understand. It has to do with middle-school bullying, or uselessness, or being undeservedly and self-assuredly lavish. It's ignorance and narcissism and choice maliciousness. In dictionary.com it's listed as:

1. of little or no importance or consequence: petty grievances.
2. of lesser or secondary importance, merit, etc.; minor: petty considerations.
3. having or showing narrow ideas, interests, etc.: petty minds.
4. mean or ungenerous in small or trifling things: a petty person.
5. showing or caused by meanness of spirit: a petty revenge.
6. of secondary rank, especially in relation to others of the same class or kind: petty states; a petty tyrant.

In treatment we work on setting some boundaries, so I'd like to use this space to create a feudal little fence around myself. Because I am the boss of this land.

1. My life, however disordered it was, is of a lot of importance and consequence; it was grievous, yes, but not petty.
2. What's second to my life? What is worth less merit than living, mistakes, regrets, and failures included?
3. It is only on this point that I agree, but if being too focused or too driven is petty, then I can think of many, many respectable people who may also fall under this categorization.
4. I was self-involved, this is true, but it was not of a genuine disinterest in those around me. In fact, it came from being too interested, wanting too badly to please and to prove and to be part of everything and all things at once. Things only became trifling because I allowed them to consume me.
5. I have never, ever, felt intentionally mean-spirited toward another person. I am so grateful to be a member of this humanity.
6. I am number one. You are number one. We are all number one...We are all infinitely one.

Call me selfish. Call me warped. Call me lost or biased or brash or judgmental. But do not call me petty. And don't step on my land.

Reality in my Favor

I just got out of a seminar on global financial analysis. One of the speaker's areas of specialty was family wealth management. He informed us that 90% of families create and destroy their wealth within three generations. Moreover, the majority of those who inherit money spend it within the first 18 months. Dismal, yes?

The beauty of a bad economy is that, in my parents clever words, "We never had any money to begin with!" As I listened to these statistics I felt golden. This is one thing I won't have to worry about!

Ah: Justice!

My dad was walking through Wash Park the other day when he happened upon two women. They were inflated, deflated and updated in all the right spaces. They pushed two strollers so modern they were practically hover crafts. They stopped to chat, and as my dad walked by he noticed that one of their poodles was peeing on the wheel of the stroller.

No matter what you do, you might very well be peed on. Embrace the facts of life, my friends!

Plastisfaction and Sateasure

Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/p/portraits-from-all-over.html

One of the first things we're taught in treatment is how to determine the difference between pleasure and satisfaction. By our definition, pleasure is the short-term enjoyment or wish fulfillment that one experiences by undertaking some sort of action, like eating a piece of chocolate cake, calling a friend on the phone, or engaging in behaviors. When one is living a values-filled life the small things that provide them pleasure also bring them satisfaction, which is longer-lasting fulfillment. Acting on impulse may bring momentary pleasure but does not equate to satisfaction. This is the reason why many people continuously seek out means to pleasure; they're never totally satisfied. Knowing that giving in to behaviors only provides pleasurable (not satisfying) benefits is a big part to determining what we really want in our lives.

Before treatment I rarely did fun things for myself and when I did I viewed them purely through a pleasure-seeking lens. When I did allow myself to go out with friends, eat at a restaurant or take the day off working out, I needed it to provide X-amount of fun or X-amount of "worthwhile-ness," otherwise I would be completely let down and feel even more incentive to return to my isolated, claustrophobic life. Sometimes I found the pleasure I sought; I'd go out dancing and feel happy the next morning. But that was what it was limited to: those few hours of fun and then the daily grind returned. Back to my old habits, my paradoxically safe and scary nest.

I was in a bit of a funk this last weekend, most notable in me being quiet and disconnected to my family. Still, I did things to pursue my values and have fun. I went out Friday evening, spent the day with a friend Saturday, helped my parents in the yard and went to Jazz in the Park on Sunday. I thoroughly enjoyed all of this and did it without thinking very much, just going with the flow. Actually, I didn't really notice how much fun I was having. It felt natural and true.

I was in a fantastic mood on Monday and realized it was because I chose a fun, values-filled weekend. It's true that the moments I experienced didn't feel as exciting and "up" as I may have hoped they would in my ED, but I also didn't set any standards for what I wanted them to be. And even though I may have been a little lost in some of the moments, I realized that I still felt pleased by them days later.

This is what I've come to understand: when one does what feels right, what sounds right, and what's good for them, they can get both pleasure and satisfaction out of their life. A lot of the people in treatment needed to learn how to see the big picture and spend less time seeking pleasure in the moment. I, on the other hand, have been focusing on learning how to live the moment, how to ride the waves of life with my head thrown back and feet relaxed. Pleasure is good for me. But when the pleasure that I experience is true to the person I am inside, it's more than good for me- it's satisfying. Pleasurable moments become satisfied states of being. All for one, one for all. Plastisfaction, or Seteasure, that's what it is.

This is the difference between being in a good mood with my eating disorder and being satisfied with my new life. The bar has been raised; my quality of life and standard of happiness are much higher than the status quo I was attempting to maintain. Previously, I was unable to be totally happy in any moment, let alone all the moments that make up living. Now, the moments may be calmer but the enjoyment, pride and satisfaction roll over and over on themselves, enveloping me in a snowball of nicety.

I like this.

Read This!

A couple pieces of reading that have really gotten me thinking in the past few days are:

"The Language of Work" in the July issue of Harper's magazine, written by Mark Kingwell. It is a scathing article against the capitalist insistence of working, it's creation of it's own working paradigm, and the basically doomed state of the human in the capitalist economy. Still, it's got some great insight on the difference between "being a slacker" and being "idle"; it also makes me feel better about quitting my internship. Plus, it's hilarious and well-written!

I'm reading the book "Succulent Wild Woman" by Sark. It's such an amazing piece; I've really got no way to describe it but if you've ever wondered what it's like to live fully and completely as yourself you've got to pick it up. I wish that all the women in my life would read it! And don't worry, Tonellis, it's not a "feminist" book. It's just real.

Enjoy!

Writing About not Writing

Resting- Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/p/wildlife.html

On June 5th I had my first actual free day. No program, no plans, just me and the world. It was enlivening but also very nerve-racking. The fear that I developed on that first totally free day followed me for the next couple days and then eventually decided that it would step directly in front of me. I then followed that fear until today. I've been very busy behind this fear. Whereas I used to wear busy-ness like a protective shield ("Read between the lines," I was saying. "I am busy because I am productive, I am directed, I've got important things to do"). Right now I feel a little ashamed of the busy-ness and also a little ashamed of the fear. Hell, if we're going to talk about shame, I've also been ashamed of the obsessions and ashamed of the body and ashamed of the stagnation. Mostly, I'm ashamed of the shame.

I'm busy doing these things: interning at the World Trade Center, doing at least 15 hours of therapy a week (the 12 hours of EIOP, seeing a therapist there, then seeing my own therapist and nutritionist), looking for a "big girl" job, picking up odd jobs for cash, and trying to maintain new and old social relationships. I've been fun busy, like seeing movies with my sisters, going out with friends, taking new work-out classes and dating a new boy. But I've also been hiding busy, and it is evident in the fact that I haven't written my blog, done my laundry, taken time for myself, felt fatigued, and obsessed about exercise. In fact, the fear really evolved from this worry: Here I am, fresh out of treatment, doing the exact same things that I've been doing for the past year, obsessing about the exact same nonsensical ideas (food and exercise), feeling anxious and worried about the same things (failure, friends, the future) and trying to run in my life in nearly the exact same way. Treatment was an investment in myself. Where was my return?

I felt depressed, out-of-control, and like a failure for about five days straight. One day in particular I could not stop worrying. In the morning I let these worries have their space; I used my coping strategies to acknowledge the thoughts and let them pass by, not fighting but respecting them. By the end of the day I was so tired of trying. The thoughts flew through my head and I felt like someone was slowly pushing me down until I was buried completely underground, still standing upright. Why, why, could I not have faith in myself? Why did I keep thinking about food and exercise?! Did I even know what color the sky was today??

Treatment taught me how to use coping skills to stay in touch with myself. It reminded me what it meant to live a satisfying life where one's inner landscape is pruned just as they plant the grain to feed their outer selves. I realize that I can never return to living a value-less, emotion-less life. Some ways that I do that are by writing, reading, having down-time, pursuing my values, doing art, practicing self-care, seeking connection with those around me, and learning. I can do all of these things because I am a whole person with a whole life; finding space is not sacrifice, it's living.

Some days I find these strategies easy to pursue. The other day I was trying to get across town to my sister's swim meet (value: family) and found myself stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I was tired; I had done nothing for myself that day and my brain felt like a bored block. I decided to support my sister from afar, got myself some dinner and ate it with a book in the park. I continuously texted my sister and my family for updates while watching the sun fall quietly behind the trees. As I walked slowly home I felt connected, alive and re-energized. And it only took about 30 minutes.

The thing is, I don't feel all that sure in my ability to employ strategies so well, especially when my obsessions threaten to get the best of me. My obsessions are much less strong when I have a schedule: I will exercise at this time, do this work, see this friend. On the one hand it is valuable to appreciate that scheduling can aid my mental peace. But there is a fine line between scheduling and using a plan to alleviate the fear that comes from the unknown. It makes me very tired, too.

From the point when I was first cognizant of the thought that "it's all the same," I've been surveying my life to see what I can change. The alterations scare the heck out of me. There's a reason that I have yet to try these things: they require a risk and cannot guarantee a reward. I also continue to chastise myself for "not being able to handle" my life or recovery (that's a familiar, annoying little thought). What is "handling" one's life, though? Does that mean that I can do everything perfectly and never get stressed or worried? Does that mean I always make the best decision? Does that mean I do not suffer from depressed days? That I've got everything under control? No changes necessary here, sir; I've got it covered.

One of the most telling things my therapist shared was the fact that following our values includes taking risks. When you follow your values you open yourself up to the fear that they might not be fully achieved or that you might gain some tough insight on yourself. You might even realize that you don't actually value that thing. But the reward you get from living a directed, satisfied life far outweighs any fear that might occur when getting there.

It's time for me to try something new. I've been living this way for a while now, and while I know that I can make it work given my new outlook on life, I don't think that I want to stick with the status quo. I've still got 14 hours of therapy a week to help me process risk- I might as well use it. That's what this time is for.

I'm going to quit my internship. I find so much value in the relationships gained and work that I've done there, but after nearly a year, I think my time is drawing to a close. Plus, it's still unpaid. Instead I am going to donate all my efforts to searching for a job that can help me follow my larger career aspirations. I'm going to spend the rest of my time forming the patterns that I want to have for the rest of my life. Patterns of self-care, self-exploration, down-time, and flexibility. I'm going to have many unplanned days that make me scared and I'm going to just live them. Risks include: having no money; feeling like a failure because I can't find a job; feeling lonely; regretting my decision; being dependent; over-exercise; obsessing; and more. Really, though, the worst-possible case scenario (having to move back in with my parents and admitting that I've got to pursue different career options) isn't too bad. It's the little moments that I'm afraid of. It's silly to make those little passings bigger than the worst outcome, isn't it?

When I committed to treatment I committed to leaving a full and productive life, a learning life. I am still committed. That entails experimenting, trying what I haven't tried before, and mindfully following my own success.

I want to thank you all for standing by. One of the ways I feel most fulfilled is being in contact with friends and family like you. Look for my e-mails, cards and letters. And give me a call if you'd ever like to hang out. I've got a pretty open schedule.

Continuating

My little sister recently graduated from 8th grade to high school. Her middle school hosted a ceremony called "continuation," at which the students "continuated" to the next level. I found it ironic that in moving from one educational level to the next they created an entirely new (grammatically incorrect) statement. Kids these days.

There's a lot of continuating going on in my life right now. My cousin will continuate to her new life with her husband this evening. That's nice, but I plan on continuating single (it is merely a chronological fact that I'm next in line, people). Next, I have my own continuation ceremony today: I graduate from the University of Denver, Latin honors and all. Finally, I completed the Partial Hospitalization Program and will continuate to the Extended Intensive Outpatient Program on Monday. Because EIOP is only recommended, I am technically finished with treatment for my eating disorder. I can no longer say that I am in treatment; I can now say that I am in recovery.

Other than from my sister, who jumped at the opportunity to get dressed up and take pictures with her friends, I have noticed a certain ambivalence about the ceremonies that accompany continuation. My cousin was unwilling to invite very many people and intent on dressing down for the big occasion in purple converse (please note: I totally support both of these ideas). As for myself, it took a lot of mental debate to finally settle on attending my graduation, and as I sit here writing this I am debating whether a shower is even necessary. Can't I just go in jeans?

I am disinclined to celebrate my successes, see, because I can usually reason how they may have been inadequate or the other things I could be doing with my time. In my mind I bid DU adieu at my presentation for my research project. I wasn't intending on ever going back. There is a "goodbye" ceremony in program where everyone says a little something to the person who is leaving, but I felt like I had already started to separate myself from the group about a week before. Why bother celebrating successes when I've already separated myself from them and they probably could have been better, anyway?

At the goodbye ceremony we are given a little pendant. Each person "puts something into" the pendant, something they think will aid the person in the next phase of their journey. I got some zen, loud laughter, and faith. One of the best contributions was actually "carrots." A dear friend of mine noticed how alike I am to that rascally rabbit who chases a carrot dangling in front of his face. I can never seem to grasp the carrot; I push it further away on the string and keep chasing without ever wrapping my fingers around that delicious orange gem and biting in. I never get to the moment when I can savor the taste.

I think that continuations are kind of like finally reaching that carrot. Running toward the carrot is doing the work. It's movement toward the goal, including saying goodbye. But that work isn't tasting the carrot itself, nor is sensing closure on the work. Biting the carrot is actually acknowledging the success, sitting in it despite the doubts one may have about it. It's letting yourself wave at the jumbo-tron like a nerd and inviting as many other people as possible to party with you. Eating the carrot, that's a true continuation ceremony.

Yesterday I allowed myself to grasp a carrot. For over a year now I have been eye-balling a beautiful necklace. It's not very expensive but I could never buy it for myself because I never felt like I deserved it. I kept promising myself I'd get it when I accomplished [task], but when the time came I always thought that another task completion would really cement the prize. Yesterday was different. I finished PHP and felt such a content, balanced high. I was proud and I felt ready. My lucky pendant hung heavy around my neck, my friend's accolades echoing in my mind. I walked up to the little store and bought myself that necklace. I hung it next to my pendant and chomped on my carrot.

Rather than go for a run this morning I sat, ate a big breakfast, and wrote this. The carrot crunches in my mouth. As I get used to the taste of carrots I will feel more and more deserving. Any excuse for a party, I say. Would you like to come?

Donut Challenge

Revelation of the Day: I like donuts.

At the Gardens

Shoot for the stars, my friend. Or just make a fool of yourself trying.

Changing my Mind

Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/p/nature.html

Early on in my college career I was given two pieces of advice. The first: Do what you say you will do. The second: A successful person always gives themselves options. I internalized these ideas and have been living with them in mind ever since. The first was particularly influential: I realized that I am someone who does follow through with their ideas and that being accountable to them is a strong motivation to follow through. In fact, I got so good at doing what I said I would do that it became the only thing I could do. I would do completely eliminated my ability to do something other than what I said or to do something unsaid. It eliminated my ability to change my mind. I gave myself no options, whatsoever.

I realized this while rollerblading the other day. I considered the meaning behind "changing one's mind." To me, changing my mind meant that my first decision was inadequate. Maybe I didn't properly take all variables into account. Maybe I let myself settle on something. Maybe I moved too quickly or too slowly. And who did I let down in changing my mind? Who could trust me in my decision retraction? Changing my mind meant that somewhere along the line I had failed. That was not an option.

So instead I fell into a pattern of indecisiveness. Every decision I had to make mattered so much because it's implementation was a measure of my mental capability. When every option potentially led to my demise the game became choosing the least harmful option. Harm avoidance was not the goal, though, because a good decision meant that I could claim achievement. I needed to prove to myself and all those people who I thought were watching me that I could do the right thing, make the best decision, take hold of my life. Unfortunately, "better" is an infinite ideal.

Despite rollerblading at top speed, my fickle little friend, Doubt, caught right up to me. A counter-point popped into my head. Changing one's mind became confused with changing my person, because if I was willing to change my mind didn't that mean that I was altering my thoughts? In treatment we're thought to respect our thoughts as being just that, to watch them pass by like leaves on the water and pay attention to our feelings. We don't alter them, we don't manipulate them, we don't judge them. Changing my mind meant that I used my thoughts to affect my actions. So how could I change my mind and be who I was?

Then I realized: my mind has nothing to do with my spirit. My feelings are the precursor to my mind. And the very term "changing my mind" was a misnomer. When I make a decision I choose to step forward. I make the decision because it's what's best for me at that time; it's what feels right. If I step into a puddle, I can move my foot to the side. "Changing one's mind" thus becomes "living the life you're given," wherein all mental and spiritual processes interact with the cards one's dealt. It's experimentation and openness and experience.

If you want to put it that way then, yes, I am someone who changes my mind. I am someone who decides to take a step and ends up in a puddle. I'll probably sit out in the sun to dry off my pants and then decide to take another step. Hopefully that one will be a little less wet. I change what I do in a way that does not sacrifice what I am. I give myself options and that just makes sense.