Gather.

Looking at all the pieces of myself. *Chapter 82*

I’m finding myself a little out of it this weekend. Blame the 45 glasses of wine I trashed my recently purified body (see: stomach flu two weeks ago) with last night. Or the fact that I posted Monday, Wednesday and Friday last week and then lost 20 subscribers… which sounds like a silly thing to mention but ouchie, did I post too much and run people off?

Sunday Brunch, by Bonnie Lynn Felton, lynnfelton.com

Shame? Self-pity? These obnoxious, emotional shards keep piercing the back of my mind. Am I embarrassed for myself? I’ve indignantly put off my usual Sunday of writing to nap on the couch and avoid a hangover. Shoved left over steak into my mouth with my hands, standing in front of the refrigerator with a too small for me nightgown on and all the blinds closed. More evidence to support the part of me that’s always dying to prove to myself that I am, in fact, a piece of shit.

I dreamt last night I was working at the restaurant again. It had been rearranged into some sort of open pit meet-up area where guests yelled their orders at me and expected immediate service. It reminded me of working at the rooftop bar of the Ace Hotel in downtown LA, a soul-sucking job in which a girl once informed my manager (and best friend) Evan that she’d thrown up in a chair and was sorry.

In my dream, I couldn’t understand why in the hell I was waitressing when I already had a job somewhere else. Why was I having to heed to the demands of these terrible people? I quit on the spot to the utter disappointment of my coworkers who were appalled at my arrogant behavior. I spent most of this dream stewing in my own self-righteousness, “why don’t they understand that I DON’T WORK HERE ANYMORE?!” In a desperate attempt to sleep cry, I woke up snoring and grunting loudly, I’ll never understand how Alan doesn’t stir. Maybe he’s just being polite.

Last month, I made a playlist called, Soundtrack of Brittany. It’s comprised of all the songs that have ever been my favorite. When I can calm my scrolling-damaged brain into allowing the playlist to play without obsessively skipping to the next song in a never-ending quest to find something to satisfy me, I relax into this wild, visceral nostalgia. I feel the feelings of my past self, longing, excited, mortified, dreamy. They collect in my chest, a pressure both tightening and expansive. How could I have ever been that person? How am I still exactly the same?

Some of my greatest [self imposed] suffering comes from a belief that I’ll never be enough. I’ll never summit the peak, write the book, get discovered, share my gifts with enough people and get the recognition I so bashfully crave. And then the older and wiser part of me, the part I’ve only recently tuned my dial to, compassionately says to shut the fuck up and sit down. My fifth grade self still listening to The Sign on repeat shoves her yellow headphones back into her ears, crosses her arms over her chest and stares out the window of the backseat pouting.

I preach a lot about the difference in waiting vs living. How really they’re the same with a slight shift in perspective. So much of me wants to feel content while an equally hefty portion longs for things I’ve yet to achieve. Why does losing 20 Substack followers mean anything to me when more people read my writing than ever before? And also, why does it matter that anyone reads it at all? I wonder.

So many of my favorite songs are accompanied by the memory of the movie trailer that played in my mind when I listened to them. As a teenager, I’d sit in the basement staring into the space, the star of my own blockbuster, best actress nominee for my leading role in whatever film had me angrily slamming my hands onto a table, running down the street in anguish and ultimately culminating in some passionate love scene. This ingrained compulsion to be seen as the best. It will never not be embarrassing to admit.

My friend, Annie, once told me that she would rather die than put onto the Internet the kinds of things I do. Which baffled me because I rarely think twice about publishing a video of myself looking like a dump, telling you my weight and documenting my fitness journey. On the other hand, I could never run a set the way Annie does or do half the things she accomplishes with such ease. My mother creates these gorgeous paintings, they just flow out of her hand, through a paintbrush and onto a canvas and how?? We just are who we we are I suppose.

When my brain isn’t recovering from nearly drowning in Aligoté, I do mostly bend to the living side of the living vs. waiting spectrum. Adding years to my resume has helped bolster the part of me I would consider more true than the ego side of me always ready to point out that I may never succeed, I may never have an in-home washer and dryer. The true part of me says, so what, it’s the freaking journey that matters most anyway. Enjoy it.

At 41, there’s a funny feeling of being both old and young. If I’m lucky to live another 60+ years like I plan, I’ve still got over half a life’s worth of parts to gather. Will I even remember the earliest parts of me then? What’s akin to my CD walk-man’ed fifth grade self will, at 90 years old, be my pantsless 40 something self eating leftovers out of the fridge on a Sunday afternoon.

Not that I’m itching for a BElieve in YOUrself kitten poster of an essay this week but I suppose a little pep talk can’t hurt. So what that sometimes I embarrass myself with my own pity? Who cares that I wasted away on the couch with a hangover that produced a wave of anxiety far worse than the headache it imposed? It’s all fine.

I guess what matters is the keeping going through all of it. The refusal to allow a little ego blow to dismantle a life of forward momentum. It’s cool to be in a place where I can comfortably gather all the parts of myself together and decide that it’s actually okay to be an embarrassing piece of shit sometimes. Cold leftover steak is freaking delicious and publishing an essay hours later than planned doesn’t matter as much as the fact that I published it at all. Thanks for reading.

MAKING

These rolls I’m going to attempt tonight. I rarely make yeasted dough as I’m usually a sourdough gal but it’s always fun to make bread that can be ready in under 8 hours.

WATCHING

May as well plug my latest My Favorite Jeans, February installment in case you missed it!

LISTENING

The Soundtrack of Brittany. Lol.

Yeah, kind of a funny juxtaposition this week of feeling both very excited about all the work and content I’m producing and really silly and embarrassed to push it on people. At the end of the day, because I know how much I love the work of my favorite writers and creators, I understand that the people who like my stuff also appreciate it coming in voluminous amounts every now and again.

Possibly the most exciting news I received this week is the scholarship I’ve been given to learn how to conduct Human Design readings. This is something I’ve been drawn to for years but never able to afford and I am thrilled for the knowledge. I haven’t taken proper classes in YEARS and the structure of it is also something I’ve been craving. Really excited to add HD readings to my list of offerings in the coming months.

I hope you are enjoying the longer days and blossoms beginning to bloom! I forget every year that with the flowering comes the pollen and my itchy eyes made sure to remind me, it’s coming. Thank you for being here and for supporting my work!

Talk to you next week!

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