Well, I decided not to wall off my heart.

That seems to be going well. Seems to have been the right decision.

So, now what?

I’ve started thinking.

Thinking is a big change from all the sitting around and hurting I’ve been doing. Progress.

I’ve been ruminating. Pondering. Wondering. Considering. Even weighing options and – get this – thinking about what to do next.

I’ve been tossing about ideas. I’ve gotten excited a few times. I’ve had conversations that didn’t revolve around what I’ve lost. I’ve even had a good day once or twice, mixed in among the days I lay in bed and ache. Ups have started appearing again, instead of the endless string of downs.

I’ve started stitching my heart back together, carefully this time. Scared, aching, unsure. Terrified. Emotional. Angry, sometimes. Sad. But slowly, slowly, slowly… moving again.

I’m not sure where I’m headed, but at least I’m starting to feel like I’m heading somewhere – and that it’s not an incredibly terribly horrible somewhere.

I’ve even started thinking about considering maybe possibly someday opening back up a little. Maybe. Possibly. Someday.

Then, Pace and I had a conversation in which she said spiritual things, and I stopped her. Flat held up my hand and said, “Okay, stop. Right now.” But it was too late, I’d already heard what I needed (but desperately didn’t want) to hear.

Now I’m walking around with a heavy shadow. An epiphany, this cloud of important vital Knowing haunting my steps. I can’t turn around, can’t move my head too fast, else I’ll fall into it. Then there’s no turning back. Some part of me already knows, but I’ll be damned before I let the rest of me know yet. I’m just not ready… which leaves me walking around like a hunted animal, being so very careful what I do or say or see or think so I won’t jump into this new place before I’m ready. Because I am so very not ready yet.

But I’m close.

And that’s progress, in my book. At least a little.

Whenever I wrote an online profile, I used to introduce myself with:

Hi! I’m Pace. I’m a bi poly kinky pagan gamer geek.

Now I say:

Hi! I’m Pace. I’m a spiritual idealist entrepreneur.

I’m still bi, I’m still poly, I’m still kinky, I’m still pagan(ish), I’m still a gamer, and I’m a geek. I still identify with each and every one of those labels.

So why the change?

It’s because of marketing. And since marketing is communication, it’s about communication.

The point of communication is to successfully convey what you want to convey. What you intend to convey doesn’t matter as much as the actual result of your communication — what the other person ends up understanding.

What does this have to do with your online profile, Pace?

How you identify doesn’t matter as much as the actual result of what you write about yourself. What kind of people will it resonate with? What will the outcome be?

In my case, I already have oodles of cool friends who are bi poly kinky pagan gamer geeks. When you co-lead the Freak Revolution, you can expect that. (: But I don’t have many friends who are spiritual idealist entrepreneurs, especially not in Austin. So that’s what I want to focus on.

Of course, honesty is paramount. If people feel baited and switched (regardless of whether you intended to bait and switch them), no one wins. But even among the true stories, there are millions of different true stories you can tell about yourself. Each of them will resonate differently with different people.

What story do you want to tell?

Wait, this isn’t just about online profiles?

Can you see how this applies to everything?

• Your website
• Your blog
• Your business
• How you dress
• What you talk about on a first date
• How and where you spend your money
• How and where you spend your time
• How you live your life

In everything you do, you tell a story. Sometimes with words, sometimes with actions. Usually, we think self-consciously, “What does this story say about me?”

Today, I want you to think about this question instead:

What outcome will result from this story?

Last week, we watched “The Tale of Desperaux”. In it, the narrator says “There are those hearts that never mend again once they are broken. Or if they do mend, they heal themselves in a crooked and lopsided way, as if sewn together by a careless craftsman.”

I, in my broken-hearted state, nodded and wept.

The next morning, I decided to carelessly sew my heart back together and wall it off. I’ve been broken-hearted so many times before, I decided I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I’m tired of being heart-sick, so I’ll just whip some stitches in there and wall off my heart.

Then, I loaded up my current addiction, Sims 3. I decided – and I’m not proud of this – to make the meanest, heartless-est, cruelest sim I could, and play her so I could vent my anger and hurt and madness and test out my newfound heartlessness.

I named her Quinn.

But I don’t just play the Sims. I’m a storyteller, so I craft their stories. I weave emotion into their lives, give meaning to the little tasks they do at my whim. I love my Sims.

I’m already not doing so well at being heartless, eh?

Quinn was mean. She was evil and mean-spirited and hot-headed, she enjoyed making enemies and hurting people, and loved getting into fights.

But every time she’d walk away from a fight, in my story, she was really sad. Deep down, her broken-all-too-often, crooked, badly mended heart would hurt, just a little bit, every single time.

In her sub-terrain home, she would sit on her couch and just be angry.

In my beautiful home, I’ve been sitting on my couch and just being angry.

In her story, in my imagination, something tragic had happened to her, and she’d walled off her heart. She’d mended it too quickly, and wound up hurting too badly to bear, and, brick by brick, tragedy by tragedy, built the wall til she couldn’t feel anymore.

So tempting.

But I could see it in her lovely face – I could see every freak I know. I could see every kid who threw shoes at me, real or verbal. I could see every bully, every jerk, every tail-pulling, rock-throwing, finger-flipping asshole I’ve ever encountered. I could see their broken, crooked, badly-mended hearts, walled off to protect themselves from whatever pain finally did them in and built their walls.

In the end, I deleted her game. I couldn’t take it. I was weeping for her, for her poor broken, crooked, hurting and hurtful heart. I loved Quinn, and my own heart ached for hers, hardened though it was.

And in turn, my own heart ached for my own heart, hurting as it is. I was filled with compassion for myself. I sat there, starting at my computer screen, and let myself hurt.

And I do hurt. I ache. I long for the life I had a month ago, a life of preparation and blissful unawares, a life on the brink instead of in the mush.

But in the end, a wall isn’t the answer. Not for me, not for my sensitive, bared-to-the-world, broken, crooked, badly-mended heart.

I’m rather severely depressed.

I caught a cold this week from my kiddo. It gives me the excuse to sit around all day and do nothing, to take NyQuil to help me sleep – and then sleep til 1pm the next afternoon. But really, that’s all I want to do right now anyway. Sleep and do nothing.

I don’t want to see people, but I’m lonely. I don’t want to go out, but I’m feeling stir crazy. I hate my hair, I hate my glasses, I hate all my clothes, I hate my environment and my stuff. I wander around the house feeling empty and ghost-like, and even my reflection is haunted, my eyes dark and clouded.

I lay in bed at night and feel my heart beat. It’s still there, still beating, pouring life and energy through me. But I’m so detached. I feel like a visitor in this temple, left with only the vague memory of it once being important – and not all that long ago. But I’m so ravaged by the hurt, so caught up in betrayal and dismay and heartbreak, that this place seems long abandoned.

The eye of the hurricane has closed around me, and I’m caught here, spinning and spinning and lost, adrift in the ache, detached from the moorings that once could have guided, removed from the light that once held me steady – forcibly removed, by my own hand. Unsure, uncertain – and at the moment, unwilling – to find the way back.

I am a huge volcano of pain erupting and bubbling over at the most inconvenient of times. I am a raging river of anger, a tornado of swirling hurting emotions throwing trees at innocent bystanders and anyone who gets in the way. I’m dropping houses, so watch out.

Over the weekend, I burst into tears and cried ragged, broken sobs for long periods of time, and then I’d get furious. Raging hopping mad. I walk around the house floating on the rush of emotion as I rapidly swing from up to down to angry to sad to despair to fury, lightheaded and heavy-hearted.

I said to Pace, “I am too full. I can’t hold all this rage and grief; it’s too much for me. I’m too small to contain it all.”

She said, “Well, I can tell you something that will help, but you’re not going to like it.”

I braced myself.

She said, “Get down on your knees and ask for help. The help is there, but you have to ask for it, and you have to be open to it, and you have to really want it.”

I said, “Fuck no.”

I’m not open to it. The Divine, which I was so open to a month ago, can stuff itself. I want nothing to do with Spirit, nothing to do with God(s), nothing to do with any of it.

I had a spiritual epiphany in Ireland. I’ve been opening and growing spiritually since the new year. I’ve been excited and open and learning and reaching out, eager to grok my new-found spirituality. And now I’m slamming a Big Fat Fucking Door shut right in the Divine Face.

I was there before. When I lost my baby, I was on my knees, begging, praying, gasping, desperate, pleading not to lose her. I spent hours there, alone in my sanctuary – my holiest of spaces in my house – begging for help.

I was ignored. Regardless of whether or not anyone or anything heard me, I certainly felt ignored. I felt nothing – no compassion, no love, no assistance, not a damn iota of Grace. Nothing. Nothing for the entire duration of the hell I was in, nothing for over a year, nothing at all when I needed it most.

I spent two months bleeding out the life inside me. I recovered just enough to be devastated again when, two months after the initial loss, I had to go back in for a D&C. Alone, laying on a cold white sterile table, crying frantically til the gas took my consciousness and the doctors took what tiny little bit was left of my daughter-that-never-was.

I spent over a year recovering.

And then, five years and miles of healing later, I felt Divinely Called to be a surrogate. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, after a ritual and a healing session. I’ve never been so sure of my Purpose. I was full of light and joy and meaning. I’ve spent the last two years preparing my body, mind, and spirit to heed this Divine Call and have babies for other people.

Just to have my own body fall apart 6 weeks before I was to get started.

Fuck.

No.

I don’t know what I’m meant to do from here. I know there’s good in everything. I know everything happens for a reason. I know there are bigger and better things out there for me. I even know what I actually need to do, and I know I’ll get there and do it eventually.

But right now, I don’t fucking care.

I am devastated.

I’m going through the motions of my life, trying to pretend I’m okay when I’m in social situations. Trying not to let on how much I’m hurting, how deeply the pain is lodged. How broken my heart is.

When my uterus collapsed, my dream collapsed.

Two years ago, my body, mind, and spirit in wholeness was called to be a surrogate for alternative families.

And my birthday, five short weeks away, was to be my launch date – when I announced it and started family-finding.

I planned to spend this month writing copy, prepping my website, arranging things, planning contracts, and generally getting ready. I’ve spent the last two years getting in better shape, taking prenatal vitamins, changing my diet, and preparing my body for pregnancy. I’ve been reading books, learning about the process, getting to know the laws. I’ve even got a business name, a gorgeous header, and a url all ready to go.

But then, this.

I knew, going in, that finding a family would be challenging. I’m 33, which is just this side of the age danger zone. I’ve had a miscarriage, which means I’ve got a higher chance of future miscarriage. I’m fat.

But I was called, so I heeded. I never wavered. I knew in my heart I would find someone, I would bring a new life into the world for someone who couldn’t. I knew it, I believed it, I felt it.

And now, this.

And even if I manage to ease all the symptoms of my newfound disorder, it can take a very long time to get back in the right place for bearing children – and I might never be able to do it non-surgically. And, either way, the risks of miscarriage and premature birth skyrocket.

I can’t look a family in the eyes and assure them that my womb is a safe place for their baby. I can’t even look myself in the eye with that assurance.

Because it’s not true anymore.

My body isn’t a safe place to gestate.

I will never have another baby, for myself or for anyone else.

I am so devastated. Heart-sick. Sad to the core of my being, sad all the way to my bones, sad from the inside out and back again.

And, of course, on top of this heart-pain, there’s been a lot of physical pain. I’m cramping, and sometimes it’s quite severe. I’ve done so many Kegels that my Kegel muscle aches all the time. I’m afraid to poop, I’m afraid to sneeze, and sometimes I’m even afraid to pee. I can’t bear so much as the thought of having sex; I can’t even bear the thought of masturbating – I don’t want to be touched sexually whatsoever. I feel so afraid and broken and icky. And it’s been nearly two weeks and hasn’t gotten any better at all.

My body has become a place of fear and worry and heartache. I feel betrayed by my body and by my spirit and by Spirit. I’m not aligned with my self, and the dissonance that causes is as troubling as the heartache.

Today is Valen’s Day.

I wager you’ve never heard of that particular holiday. That’s because Pace made it up. Several years ago, she posted a silly picture:

(that’s Valen from Babylon 5); can you guess what it means?

Yeah, it still hurts me, too. “Happy Valen-tines day”, indeed.

But, at first, I got “Valen’s Day” out of it, and the name stuck. We started celebrating Valen’s Day on 2/12, because 212 is Pace’s lucky number.

Ta-da! A goofy, self-proclaimed holiday was born, one we celebrate with glee every year.

Holidays in general are largely made up. Most Christian holidays were, shall we say, procured from the local pagans, in order to more easily convert them. And the “real meaning” of most holidays has been converted into mass commercialism, the spiritual or earthy meanings long forgotten.

Taking something important to you, be it funny or inspirational or devotional or whathaveyou, and turning it into something to celebrate, making it a holiday, is very freaky. It’s fun. It can be sacred. It can mark something monumental (like a wedding anniversary or a divorce anniversary) or something meaningful only to you. It’s also revolutionary, because society says “celebrate these certain holidays and no more or less, you filthy heathens!”

Society be damned.

Happy Valen’s Day!

Here’s an interesting example of how different people can read very different things into the exact same words.

Imagine this.

Alice and Betsy are emailing each other in an attempt to make plans to meet. Betsy initiated the attempt, they’ve already agreed on a location, and now it’s gotten down to picking a time.

Alice volunteers, “I’m free every Saturday and Sunday, from morning until 3:30 in the afternoon.”

Betsy replies with, “I’m available every evening after 8, and all the time on weekends.”

What, if anything, would you assume about Alice and/or Betsy based on this reply? What might you guess about their intent, reliability, level of personal responsibility, or desire to actually follow through on these plans?

Yes, folks, this is a post about my girly bits. Specifically about my cervix, but my vagina is discussed.

Daddy and Little Brother (and anyone else uninterested in my girly bits), you probably want to stop reading right here. I’m going to be disturbingly frank. Consider yourselves warned.

There’s a good lesson at the end, though. (Tempt, tempt.)

Let’s begin.

My vagina and I are good friends. Unlike most women, I’m rather familiar with how mine looks and feels, inside and out. This has come in handy from time to time, when something is awry – I can catch it before it gets too awry.

You might already know where this is heading, right? Because why would I be talking publicly about my private bits unless I had damn good reason?

Yup.

Last week, I went to the bathroom as usual. When I attempted to reinsert my Diva cup (yes, that means I was in need of the menstrual hut), I found my vaginal cavity blocked.

And promptly freaked the fuck out.

I calmly said to Pace, “Honey, get the flashlight and meet me in the bedroom, stat.” (Calm, because I didn’t want to terrify my son, who was setting up a game nearby.) Pace picked up on the panic in my voice and didn’t waste any time getting to me.

After a while of uncomfortable poking and prodding – and the least sexy photographs of a usually sexy place possible (for science!) – she went off to the computer. She was doing the research, as I am forbidden to google medical issues.

(This is because, once, I sprained my ankle and read an article on how a sprained ankle can lead to death and freaked the fuck out.)

After extensive research, Pace said, “Okay, it looks like your cervix.”

Pardon me?

My cervix?

As in, the thing that’s supposed to be at the other, far away, hard to reach end of my vagina?

It seems to have wandered a bit out of place, don’t you think?

I was, unsurprisingly, still freaking the fuck out. Pace remained extremely calm and helpful and kind, and took excellent care of me. I called friends and they said reassuring and comforting things and gave me good advice. I stayed up way too late because sleeping seemed like a bad idea. I mean, what if my uterus as a whole decided to climb out and run off? Apparently, various bits of me are getting errant ideas! So I fussed and freaked and panicked for hours, then asked the internet what to do.

The internet, in a moment of stunning grace, said, “Everything is going to be alright.”

So I went to bed.

The next morning, I went to the doctor. I managed to find an Ob/Gyn recommended to me my best friend, so at least it was someone I knew by proxy about to shove her fingers up my girly bits rather than some stranger dude in the ER.

I told the doctor about my past (miscarrying and being raped) and that I was extremely terrified, and she thanked me and promised to be extremely gentle and tell me everything before she did anything. I told her the whole story about my bits trying to escape, and she listened (mostly). Then she did prod and poke and I cried a little (because it’s so fucking triggery I can’t help it).

Diagnosis?

Uterine prolapse. In English (or Kyelish), my uterus is, indeed, trying to escape.

And here I thought we were friends.

But seriously, it means my uterus isn’t in the right place and is collapsing. There are lots of things I can do to mitigate the symptoms. I’m going to survive. I’m devastated, and there are some pretty horrible consequences (more on that later), but it’s not going to kill me. It’s not as terrifying, now that I know what’s going on.

But, here’s the thing.

Had I not known my body well, I might’ve missed it until it became life threatening.

Once I made myself get to the doctor, I had to hold firm and make her tell me that my uterus wasn’t going to actually come out. I needed to hear her say it so I could chill (at least a little).

And wow, did I need Pace there to make sure I covered all the things I needed to cover. I was so terrified and freaked out, I knew I’d never remember everything. And then, on the table, on my back, my cervix (trixy trixy cervix) wasn’t as far prolapsed, so there was much discussion before we were able to get her to really understand that there was a very serious problem. Had I not been so familiar with my vagina, I might not have had the knowledge with which to move her to action – and without Pace, I might not have had the emotional strength to keep trying.

Being able to inform your healer of all your symptoms, being able to provide a complete and clear story, is critical. If you can’t tell your healer for whatever reason (like, me choking up from body-triggers), tell someone you love and trust and then ask them to come with you and help. Or write it down before you go – most healers are so delighted to have a complete picture, they’re happy to read it.

Don’t let your very private parts go ignored. Our breasts, vaginas, penises (penii?), anuses, and internal reproductive organs get ignored the most because they’re the hardest to talk about when things go awry – but if they malfunction, so does the rest of us.

Whole health is about being entirely healthy. Even our pink squishy bits need to be healthy to help complete our picture.

So, to break it down:

1) Know your body. Become familiar with how you feel on a regular basis, so you can get an early sense of something going wrong.

2) Make sure your whole story is told. Tell it yourself, either to the healer or a friend. Write it down. Get it all out, even things you think are unimportant and unrelated – they might be neither.

3) Ask questions. Even dorky questions. (I asked, “Is my uterus going to fall out?” The obvious answer is no, but I needed to hear it from the doctor.)

4) Make sure you feel informed. If the healer acts like they’ve told you everything, but you don’t feel fully informed, keep prodding for more. They almost always have more.

5) If you’re afraid, go anyway. Take someone you know and trust and feel safe with, to offer you comfort and support.

People, I am utterly, utterly terrified of the ob/gyn. Every time I go, I cry. It shakes me up for days. Ever since I miscarried, being put in stirrups is enough to send me right back to that terrible moment and I’m flooded with fear and despair. It’s not easy. It’s why I avoid regular girly-bit maintenance. But this time, that avoision could have cost me my uterus – or my life.

Knowing our bodies is critical to our health. If we don’t know what “normal” feels like, we can’t know what abnormal feels like.

Hello again! Here’s a taste of what’s been going on lately with our community and around the internets.

How to be telepathic

This is an interesting article about how to avoid the usual error. The upshot is to imagine what the other person would think at some point far away in the future, rather than imagining what they would think right now. When it comes to guessing what others are thinking, our future-guessing is far more accurate (even for now!) than our now-guessing.

Taylor Muse

Our friend Taylor Muse shares his thoughts about religion, music, Daniel Quinn, and the control paradigm. It’s a moving post, and there’s some interesting discussion in the comments. You can read it here.

Idea Catalyst Kit

Our friend Megan at IdeaSchema (you may remember her as the talent behind the book design for The Usual Error, among many other things) has launched a new product called the Idea Catalyst Kit. It’s for entrepreneurs trying to figure out how to come up with a brilliant idea for a successful business, or entrepreneurs who already have brilliant ideas and don’t know what to do with them.

We don’t make any money if you click on these links; our only goal in sharing this with you is to help you get those ideas out of your head and into the world, any way you can. We’ve peeked inside the box, and it’s not just hype — there’s impressively good stuff in there! Megan is high quality. Click and see for yourself!

The Narcissist: A User’s Guide

Our friends Betsy and Lori have written a new e-book: The Narcissist – A User’s Guide. It teaches you how to recognize and deal with narcissists in your life.

What kind of people are we talking about here?

• Friends who sap you of energy.
• Co-workers who make your life miserable.
• Family members who criticize you, incessantly argue with you, and drive you crazy.
• People who demand lots of emotional maintenance but rarely reciprocate.

What they call narcissists, we might label "emotional manipulators", "codependent abusers", or "emotional vampires".

This is very important stuff here. If anyone in your life fits this description, then please give this e-book a read. Think of it as a troubleshooting appendix to The Usual Error.

It’s only 30 pages, but it’s packed with practical wisdom. It’s a great read and it’s also written in a way that’s easy to skim. And best of all, it’s free!

Here’s the link! Narcissist: A User’s Guide

Austin Makes a Book

Austin, TX residents: Check this out, it’s a crowdsourced book! 100 people, 100 pages. Kyeli and I just submitted our page (an essay about the monkeysphere), and now there are only 25 24 pages left. Hmm, since they let Kyeli and me share a page, I guess that makes it 101 people, 100 pages. Off-by-one error. (:

If you live in or around Austin and would like to submit a story, essay, photo, art, or whatever, check out Austin Makes a Book.

Pace and Kyeli are Retreating

How will Pace and Kyeli be spending our Valentine’s Day weekend? At Jen Louden’s Virtual Retreat, that’s how!

Oh my gosh, this is going to be so good. Jen is such a sweetheart, and we’re doing a bunch of lovely things with Patti Digh, Hiro Boga, Fabeku, and oodles of other shiny people. (:

We’re looking forward to it ridiculous lots. It’ll be like a huge emotional and spiritual sigh. The kind where you breath in deeply, let it out slowly, and you feel like your shoulders relax and sink all the way into the soft bouncy peat bog grass. Or maybe that’s just us. (;

The price goes up by $50 tonight at midnight, so if you feel inspired to join us at the Virtual Retreat, you might want to register soon.

Click here (affiliate link, direct link) to read more, and to see the whole list of interesting and fabulous people!