Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?

Dear Vincent,

Are you lonely?

Do you have a pain body?

I think almost

everyone

has a Pain Body.

And I’m pretty sure that

almost

everyone

is lonely.

Everyone knows what loneliness is. As for the Pain Body, this happens when some circumstance or event triggers your deep human wounds, and then you feel like a four-year-old child whose ice cream has fallen off the cone. Some people’s pain bodies are exceptionally persistent and stubborn, and this makes it difficult to keep their weeping delicate in the Dollarama line-up where they might be buying vinegar, or envelopes, or shiny ocean animal stickers for their ten-year-old pen pal named Lucas who once wrote, “I don’t have brothers or sisters. I have autism.”

For the future, me and my friend Paul predict that Extreme Loneliness and Extreme Social Awkwardness will permeate the whole world. Much of this is due to smart phones and ghosting and a lack of face-to-face contact. The other Universal Predicaments of existence are Horny, Hungry, and Tired.

My sense is

that Awkward

will also get to be

a Universal Predicament.

And so there are five universal predicaments.

Lonely, Horny, Hungry, Tired, and Awkward.

 

Yesterday, I met with all five of the Universal Predicaments.

Plus a pain body that made it rather strenuous to keep my weeping delicate in the Dollarama line-up where I was buying vinegar, envelopes and shiny ocean animal stickers for my ten-year-old pen pal named Lucas who does not have brothers or sisters, but has autism .

 

Lonely, Horny, Hungry, Tired, and Awkward.

 

We have no idea if you – Vincent – are suffering from the Universal Predicaments, and if so, which ones, and what kind of Pain Body is making it hard for you to keep your weeping delicate in the Dollarama line-up.

Or maybe you are buying toothpaste at Jean Coutu,

or grapes at the fruiterie,

or cider or vodka

or whatever’s on sale at the SAQ.  

 

Nobody knows. The Real Vincent does not write back.

Today is my twelfth

Monday

Without Vincent.

I think I sound more

Obsessed with you

Than I actually am,

though I do sound very Obsessed.

So far today, I have only wept once, and mostly this weeping was delicate.

Love, Erica.

The End.


Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica. 


Inspiration equals: Bliss & Grit.

I listened to Bliss & Grit last night while cleaning someone else's glass surfaces.
Probably coulda helped at the beginning of the day
that did not see me weep
very delicately.
Bliss & Grit on Facebook
Episode 35: Pain Bodies in Action
Brooke Thomas is still quite delightful
even when she feels like a Debbie Downer.
Both Brooke and  Vanessa are delightful.
I forgot about the term
Debbie Downer and now remember
that I love it.
Thank you for your podcast, Bliss and Grit!





Debbie Downer
Pain Body
Picture for the Internet
July 30, 2017

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Professional Depressed
Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.
Today is Holy Thursday and I'm having a Holy Hell of a time meditating.

Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.

Dear Vincent,

Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter. He sounds quite sad. Sorrowful Simon initially reached out to me on the dating site, OkCupid. We’ve never met in real life. My excuse for not going a date with him was that I had already experienced a Sorrowful Simon in a rather extensive way. You, and some other people know that the first Sorrowful Simon in my life ended up jumping off a building. Perhaps my excuse for not going on a date was adequate. Now I have repeated the name, “Sorrowful Simon,” four-and now five-times in one paragraph. That’s enough times. It is time to address Simon’s plight.

 

Simon says,

 

By habit, or because they sense that I’m not doing too good, friends have been asking me how I am feeling more frequently lately, and I’m finding it difficult to answer them with any degree of clarity. Like Erica, I had a therapist which really helped me a few months back, and in the same way I ran out of allowed sessions so we had to part ways. Since then, I have strived to keep clarifying my feelings and emotions in my head, but inevitably I get lazy and stop doing it regularly, which then makes it harder to do so, and the cycle leads to where I’m at right now, I guess: having so much in my head that nothing can get out, or just barely, sometimes when I get drunk/high and start writing poems, or if I start talking with a friend or a lover and I’m in the right frame of mind (but then sooner or later I start thinking that I’m boring that person, imposing, or just not making sense, and I reel back my outspoken outburst).

 

Dear Simon, How are you?

 

So easily this question can trigger such performance anxiety. It sounds like your friends genuinely care and want to know, and yet you feel like you can’t quite open up, because what if the true answer is actually too much? My sense is that many people feel as though if they were to honestly reveal themselves, all their feelings and suffering and struggles, that this would be way too much for those around them. An unacceptable and tedious burden. And so you hold back. But this doesn’t sound like a viable option, since it is building up to more than you can bear. You need a mode of expression, a means of release. I’m sorry that therapy is no longer available. How can you replicate some of the relief it provided?

 

Alcohol and drugs, well, these can have their place, as long as they’re pursued without desperation or addiction. But substances have their limits as long-term sources of comfort. In my experience, they tend to isolate over time, in addition to generating shame and/or oblivion, whether immediate or in their aftermath. Thus, with as clear a mind as you can access, I think you need to reach out to real people, either your friends, or the kind voices at the end of a crisis helpline. Choose the most non-judgmental and compassionate person you can find, perhaps not your mother, but maybe. And then speak. So frequently I hear of people finally opening up to their loved ones, disclosing the deep and seemingly intolerable darkness on their hearts. And you know what their loved ones say? “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

 

Simon:

 

There are so many things I could say right now, things which I know are weighing down on me, but to explain them in a coherent manner would require so much back-story… I don’t know if you would think it relevant or even intelligible.

 

Some of those things concern my ex-wife and children… some are about the situation with my current lover… some are about my day-to-day life and yearnings… about writing, which I still consider to be my vocation, but a failed one… but mostly it’s about Loneliness, which (I realized recently) I am more afraid of than Death (which is paradoxical, seeing as I am a solitary person by nature, and quite enjoy solitude).

 

At some point it will likely be worthwhile to rehash and unleash all the backstory. But right now I want to talk about writing. Writing and then Loneliness. But first writing. Although failing at any vocation sounds immensely painful, writing is a particularly loaded thing to fail at. There are all sorts of so-called empowering self-help books on how to awaken your creativity and write incessantly, prolifically, uninhibitedly, and with unrelenting joy, great brilliance and then you get rich and famous. I have read most of these books. Last summer, I threw out a book called, “The Right to Write” and I hope to avoid encountering such publications for the rest of my life.

 

No book will grant you with “The Right to Write.” It is all yours. Always. As for vocations and failure, humans invented both of these things, and while I don’t want to invalidate your perception, it could be helpful to challenge your beliefs on what it is you are “supposed” to be doing, and what it means to be successful.

 

On the bathroom wall of where I am staying, there’s a list written by a 90-year-old woman, containing 45 lessons that life taught her. The woman’s name is Regina

One of Regina’s lessons is, “All that really matters in the end, is that you loved.”

It’s possible that this sentence provides you with absolutely no relief. It might even fill you with cynicism. But I want you to consider what your list would be. Will becoming a successful writer truly provide you with the redemption you think you need? What societal bullshit are you clinging to? What personal bullshit are you clinging to? When you are 90 years old or younger and dying, what choices will seem like excruciating mistakes? What memories will bring you peace? What does your meaningful life look like? As Oprah would say, “What do YOU want?”

 

I used to think I wanted to be a best-selling novelist. Over and over again, I would write the first 80 pages of “My Life’s Work.” Then one morning after cranking my various spines through a sweaty yoga practice in India, I realized, the hell with it. I don’t want to write novels. The act of writing novels entails a whole slew of tasks I don’t particularly enjoy. For example, making things up. Rewriting drafts of long and imaginary stories over and over again. Writing about something other than myself and my own life. Well, this embarrassing, but honest. And what a relief to let that so-called dream unravel.

 

You get to choose the terms of your own success, creative or otherwise. During the spring of 2015, I decided that I would combat the unrelenting notion that I was perpetually failing creatively by committing to publishing two blogs per week, no matter what. This became my creative practice, and though I only maintained it religiously for a few months, it got me out of an angsty stagnant funk. I came up with a whole bunch of work that I am proud of and that even made me feel more at peace about the possibility of dying. Some people read it and most of the world didn’t. To a certain extent, Margaret Atwood’s experience is not all that different. We are all like Margaret Atwood, and not at all.

 

So I am wondering, Simon, if perhaps you could somehow take the “failure” and “vocation” out of your story about being a writer. Is there some sort of tangible and low pressure creative practice that might bring you a sense of accomplishment and joy? Ten minutes of rambling on the bus, a heartfelt email every afternoon, beginning the day with your pen and notebook and three to five sentences. Come up with something that’s small enough to pull off, but large enough to not feel like a cop out. During the times in my life when I am writing, no matter what I’m writing, and no matter what else is going on, I hate myself less, and am also less lonely.

 

That’s all I will say about loneliness this time. I will leave Simon, Vincent and our readers with the poem Simon wrote at the end of his letter:

 

I’m just half a person

part of me withered

(like Janus looking

at Death & Life

at the same time)

but still

I must take on

the Whole of my Life

 

no wonder

I’m so tired

-by Simon.

 

Yes, Simon, I can see why you’re tired. I’d be tired too. I wish you the deepest and most unshakeable peace available.

 

With love to Vincent and to this and every Simon,

Erica.


The End.


Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica.

"What truly happy person needs to stand in front of the mirror every morning to convince themselves they're happy?"
-Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.
Not me, Mark. No. Not me.




Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

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Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.
Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake Up.
Five Days of Creative Recovery

Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I moved.

I guess I didn’t need

to pay you 90 dollars to affirm

this decision.

A gifted and influential meditation teacher has died.

Struggling with challenging mind states linked with bipolar disorder, he sought out street drugs. These ended up containing fentanyl, and this killed him.

This is Michael Stone.
You can learn more about his teachings at michaelstoneteaching.com/.
You can support his family here.

His death has made me want to resume our imaginary emails. In fact, I considered sending this to you for real, though instead, I think I will simply post it on the Internet.

 

Opioids have their appeal these days. I don’t know much about them, but I think I can understand.

I get when it feels like you’ve tried everything, and the mind states still feel unmanageable. Extreme, unmanageable, and

in the words of my thoughts, unacceptable.

 

Michael Stone, the teacher who died, meditated every day for more than half of his life.

People can be so unforgiving of meditation. As though it all fails if the results are not entirely impeccable, and serene. I’m not sure I’m amazing at forgiving all the rituals and routines whose results have not turned out to be
unfailingly impeccable and serene.

 

These past few weeks, in preparation for the move, and because I want to erase myself, I’ve been obsessively giving things away. The tie-dyed clothes that no one will buy, old shoes I need to replace, but I never get around to it, sweaters, food, two of the books of my seven book library. Now there are only five books, and two of these are borrowed. How else can I erase myself?

 

Wednesday morning

Post evening of vodka and packing,

And almost three hours of sleep,

I transported all of my belonging from Mile End to Outremont.

About seven blocks.

It took three trips.

Two on foot,

And one $6 taxi ride.

I gave the driver a 100% tip.

I am rich now.

 

On the corner of Bernard and des Querbes, my new street,

a relatively obvious poem

came into my head.

 

There is no way

to erase

that you

existed.

There is no way

to erase that you

are alive

or that you lived.

 

After that, the poem crumbled.

Where I’m living is immense. I am subletting from family who is visiting Denmark for all of August. I’ll stay here until September 1^st. Then I will move again.

The five year old who usually lives here has a whole room for her dollhouse and toy kitchen, a mini artist table and child-sized canopied couch. I keep wandering from one end of the apartment to the other, not remembering where I’m going or what I’m looking for.

Though my pile of belongings is quite tiny, yesterday it seemed far too intrusive and out of place, and nothing seemed to fit.

One of my favourite friends came over to help. 

 

“I want to get you something large and obnoxious so you learn to take up space."

These are all my possessions, minus one large Rubbermaid of winter clothes, and two boxes of memorabilia I keep at my parents' houses.

Then I remembered the hanging begonia. One of my cleaning client’s Airbnb guests had been so thrilled with my communicative Facebook messages that she’d bought me a hanging plant. I’d forgotten to retrieve it from my client’s balcony. One of the nicest things people can do is say thank you, and I’d abandoned the gesture, figuring the plant was too large a possession, and way too much proof of existence.

 

The plant turned out to be far more enormous than I’d imagined. Several of its leaves and peach-coloured blooms had turned brown. It was dried out, but not quite dead.

This is the begonia.

Once I’d left my client’s place, I immediately squatted on the sidewalk of Parc Ave. It seemed so important to pick off all the dead leaves and petals. I think I can save the plant from dying.

Now the plant is hanging on my balcony, above the hammock. In the mornings, I will bring it water, and feed it my eggshells and coffee grounds.

Love, Erica.

 

The End.

 

Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica.

This is me in a movie with the begonia.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


Not Separate From All That Is
Mourning, wailing, yearning, wake up.
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two

What does it mean to be home

What does it mean to be to be home


Three things I've never excelled at are
Lighting matches,
Cooking and
Opening locks with keys,
Even the right ones.


Dear Vincent,
I am moving.
I wish you'd been around 
to affirm this decision.
Love, Erica.


One thing I've never excelled at is
Closing the cupboard doors
After I use them.


Rain is merciless.
The squirrels must be sleeping
Or else hiding.


These days I'm choosing to be
More hungry than
I need to be.
Hungrier
And more worried
But just as honest.


One thing I do not excel at is
Not telling you
I wish I had
5.25 boyfriends,
Seven fathers
and that my eleventh therapist's name was Vincent
and
I kind of adored him.


Dear Vincent,
These days I'm trying to teach myself
to fall asleep on the floor.
That way you never need anything
Or anyone.
They say that after a while
the floor will start to get mouldy
but
as long as
you keep leaving
it'll be fine.
Love, Erica.


Rain is merciless.
I am not excelling at
My usual routines.
So many things
once occurred before breakfast.
This is how
I'm like the squirrels
if not like
Margaret Atwood.


What does it mean to be home.


Dear Vincent,
I am moving.
I wish you'd been around
to affirm this decision.
I have no idea if the squirrels feel at home.
My sense is they
are hungrier
than I am
but less worried.
Rain is merciless.
I do not use umbrellas but
it looks like the kind of day when
you might need one.
Love, Erica.


The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


What does it mean to be well
We have no idea if the squirrels are happy. Or/if anyone is.
Hour of God on a Friday