Category: fresh ideas!

I’m All Out of Vices

A Tale of Involuntary Clean Living



Photo by Edward Howell on Unsplash

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February of 2020 proved to be the convergence of a lot of change. The big one we all know. That one is still impacting our lives over three years later.

But little did I know that would also be the final act of my monthly cycle. Yep, February 2020 was the official start of my menopause. Since menopause is defined by going a full year without a period, I could only know that February 2020 was the last one twelve months later. Had I known I might have lit a candle. Baked a cake. Held a Bon Voyage party.

What I also didn’t know in February 2020 was that it would be the last time my hairdresser and dear friend would put color in my hair. I began growing out my gray roots in those strange COVID times and just kept going. I’m still not sure I embrace my gray, but it’s mine.

Turns out February 2020 was a significant inflection point for the world and for me.

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My monthly cycles had always been at best uneasy and at worst downright awful. They were so regular I could set a watch by them, but in my early twenties I was diagnosed with mittleschmerz which is just a German way of saying ‘middle pain.’

This meant very painful ovulations in the middle of each cycle. This pain would last my entire adult life. Bonus? I always knew when I was ovulating. Downside? Every time I ovulated it made me hurt so bad I wanted to throw up.

In my thirties, I was also diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder, or PMDD. To call it a severe form of PMS is to call a tornado a severe form of wind. The PMDD was a 28-day mental, physical, and emotional roller coaster ride where I felt good for about four to five of those days.

I remember back then thinking how menopause was going to be great. I couldn’t wait to get rid of these awful monthly cycles of agony. Not having periods meant no more pain and the end of the hormonal nightmare, right? It’s cute that I thought having no period would be a cakewalk.

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My hormones had so many more surprises in store. With the change came incredible joint pain. Overwhelming fatigue. Brain fog so bad at times I am still certain I have early-onset dementia despite being assured by my medical team that all is well.

I have read and researched and looked for help and I have found many women telling me “It doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Well, yes and no.

Traditional medicine doesn’t have a lot to say. My regular doctor sent me to a menopause specialist who gave me antidepressants for the hot flashes that I told her I only rarely had. She had little to say about the fatigue and memory issues and sent me away saying, “I hear yoga helps?”

Next, I tried a naturopath who did really listen and offered quite a lot of help. Within six months, my situation considerably improved. I was starting to feel better, and as the fog and pain eased, it became clear to me that in my fifties, it was finally time for me to do a much better job of taking care of myself. Something I had ignored for quite some time.

So, back to the regular doctor. “I actually want to exercise,” I told her, and I meant it. I began to eat better. I finally admitted that my lactose intolerance wasn’t something I could pretend I didn’t have.

Also, I grudgingly acknowledged that every time I ate bread products that I craved so much and my stomach bloated up and hurt that maybe, just maybe, I needed to stop ignoring that too.

I ate more vegetables. I vastly reduced the amount of sugar I consumed even though sugar and sugary food is my comfort. And then, something happened that I never could have imagined.

I stopped drinking.

I have never been a big drinker, but boy did I love a couple of glasses of red wine or maybe some bourbon at the end of the week. In menopause, how my body metabolized alcohol changed and I had to stop drinking just to see if it made me feel better, and it did.

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So here I am, still working on myself.

I’ve never been a fan of tobacco and nicotine. I’ve tried multiple forms of pot and didn’t like it. Anything harder than that is off the table. I don’t drink. I don’t eat wheat. I rarely eat cheese. I eat sugar but in far smaller amounts. I once had a thing for binge shopping but even that isn’t interesting anymore.

These days I find myself, curiously, without vices. Me, the person who chased all kinds of vices and comforts and mind-numbing agents for the first fifty years of my life.

This is so unexpected.

I often ask myself, “what will I do when I have that really bad day and I want to sink into something that will dull my mind?” And honestly, I don’t know anymore. Yeah, okay, I can get out a pint of oat milk ice cream but come on, the decadence factor just isn’t there.

What do I use to celebrate big news? Non-alcoholic spirits seem to be having a moment. I did try the Seedlip brand, and while tasty, it’s just never going to be that same warm numb feeling as pouring a glass of amber liquor.

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This isn’t a complaint, I guess. I feel better than I have in years. Someone commented recently that my face has changed. I haven’t lost any weight, but I think I am less puffy. Less inflamed.

Less inflammation means less joint pain. Less joint pain makes me rather content.

I have always been the type to seek food and drink and other mild to moderately addictive behavior as a way to comfort the aches and pains of everyday life. The past three years of my life have been filled with change and loss and grief.

So now, during what is arguably the most painful time of my life, no one is more surprised than me to find I no longer want to find ways to forget but rather I seek ways to stay present. To feel what I feel and figure out how to cope with that.

Huh. I’m evolving. It’s the weirdest (and most beautiful) damn thing. Who knew menopause would make me a better person?

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This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

Words in Motion

Photo by Corey Agopian on Unsplash

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I am incredibly excited to announce that my story, “Swim, Swam, Swan” was selected by a group of esteemed judges as part of the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) first ever writing contest called BART Lines. The writing contest coincided with BART’s 50th Anniversary celebrations.

The winning stories are made available on Short Edition short story dispensers found in some of the many BART stations around the Bay Area and on the Short Edition website. The Short Edition team also pushed my story out to their machines worldwide. Riders can hit a button and have a story dispensed on a long strip of paper, much akin to a CVS receipt, but instead of listing soap and toothpaste, you get my story!

With a theme of motion, the judges were notable Bay Area authors Annalee Newitz, Ishmael Reed, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, JK Fowler, and Daniel Handler.

My story can also be found on the Short Edition website, here’s the link.

Love My Links

A collection of my most recent stories, in easy clicky format.

Photo by Dan Dennis on Unsplash

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These days I am doing most of my writing over on Medium. For a little while I was also publishing the individual stories here on the ol’ blog, but to be honest this blog isn’t aging well. I’ve been hacked more times than I can count and WordPress has made changes to how editing works and sometimes its a bit more than I can handle.

I know, I  know, I need to just hire someone to revamp the whole site, I really do. But until then, I wanted to share the links to my most recent writing over on Medium. These are all friend links so you should be able to read without a pesky firewall getting in your way.

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Smoke Covers Fire – an essay contemplating a morning swim under skies blotted out by smoke from recent California wildfires

 

Prince Charming with a Handicap – My response to the prompt: prosthetic eye. I got a little weird on this one and had a lot of fun. It ended up being an editors pick for The Hinged publication which made me very proud.

 

A Writer Looks at Ted Lasso – Hardly groundbreaking to love this incredibly popular show, but for me, the writing is everything and the Ted Lasso writers do it well.

 

The Heart of Our Home – The prompt was: hinge, and I really like this story. Though I must confess I wrestled to get it out and onto the page. The words fought me a little. It happens. In the end, I’m very happy with the results. This one was also published in The Hinged.

 

Make Hay While the Sun Shines – The prompt was: harvest season and I wrote this for the Lit Up publication. Now this story told itself, one of those incredibly satisfying experiences when words flow like water. This one might be based on some things that happened back in my college days at NMSU, and I just love how it turned out.

 

My Grapes are Sour and Difficult to Digest – I’m pretty good at dealing with my writing being rejected, but a recent rejection stuck in my craw and I had to write my sour grapes.

 

Better Than The Original – My first story for The Riff publication and it’s a fun one. Based off of the question I saw on Twitter “What’s a song you fell in love with, not because of the original, but the cover version?” I pick three but there are plenty more. The commenters added a few of their own, too.

 

You’re Gonna Miss Me, Little Baby – An ode to the late, great San Francisco blues legend, Johnny Nitro, on what would have been his 70th birthday. This one also found a home with The Riff.

 

If you like what you’re reading on Medium and would like to sign up, I’d be much obliged if you would do using my referral link. I get a little kickback if you do, and thanks!

On Un-inspiration

And My Own Fallacy of Un-motivation


Photo by Kristopher Roller on Unsplash

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The last time I wrote a story on the Medium platform (and this blog) was February 1, and that was something I had written before, reworked, and published. I’m very proud of it.

My last brand new work on Medium (and this blog) was January 28.

I have lost followers, views, and dolla dolla bills, ya’ll. I used to be a top writer in Photography. No longer.

I feel guilty. I chastise myself for my lack of focus. I complain that I have no motivation. I say that I’m waiting for The Muse, but she’s reluctant.

I have a familiar Greek chorus singing songs of “you suck” rolling loud, bumping the bass, in my brain.

So what really happened?

I got uninspired. It happens. I would not call what this is writer’s block. I can and do write. Honestly, I just got a little uninspired about writing on Medium. It isn’t fatal, I’m still here, but after letting my momentum lapse, I have some work to do. Or maybe, you know, not.

I needed to take a hard look at myself as it pertains to my own use of Medium. None of this is Medium’s fault, the platform and its algorithms roll on with our without me. No, this is just some good personal introspection. Needed. Necessary.

I’ve lived long enough on this planet to know a few things about myself. I will never live long enough to know everything and I can’t seem to stop repeating the same mistakes, but I do try. I amuse and surprise myself almost daily. May I always be a source of comedy to my own mind.

Here is the lesson that I learned about myself again. And again. And again: Numbers, stats, measurements…they make me crazy. I’m not talking some ha-ha-ha isn’t that funny, I look at my stats, count my steps, weigh myself, SO darn much kind-of-cute crazy.

No, I mean that obsession with measurements of all kinds can make me slip off my carefully balanced nut. I know this about myself and still fall down a hole far too often.

That stats page on Medium? Oooh, yeah, that is a long cool cigarette to smoker trying to quit.

Partner Program earnings? Just one drag won’t hurt.

There are so many well-meaning and helpful writers on Medium with tens of thousands of followers who will describe the large amounts of dollars they make each month and how you can too. How if you aren’t publishing every day what are you even doing here. How they are a top writer in 82 different topics, and are you even trying?

This seeps into the folds of my brain like black mold and grows if I leave it unchecked. Turns out I must carefully curate what I let in and what I leave behind.


Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash


I love writing. I have been seriously writing for the better part of 20 years and less seriously all of my life. I work hard at it. It matters. It is who I am.

Writing on Medium would seem a perfect fit, wouldn’t it? And it is. But I was starting to make myself crazy. I was going nuts looking at stats, chastising myself for not having more views, wondering how to get more reads, bemoaning every story that was not curated and hating myself for not being better, faster, more, more, more.

The inner voice told me I must suck as a writer if I can’t even make $50 a month (my best month is $18 and I am super proud of that).

In the same timeframe that I have been riddled with guilt and convinced I lacked both inspiration and motivation, I have had three short stories published in respectable literary journals. One. Two. Three (will be published tomorrow).

I competed in a short story contest and worked my ass off on a story I am incredibly proud of in a genre (sci-fi) that is a challenge for me. I turned that story out like a boss.

I created a beautiful photograph that took second place in my photo club’s monthly contest (the theme was reflection/symmetry) and had it published in a newsletter with a reach of about 5,000 people. That publication returned to me such amazing feedback and compliments, I rode on a cloud of good words for days.

When people say that to make it on Medium “you have to do the work,” I am in complete agreement. So when I chastise myself for not “doing the work” here I realize I have for damn sure been doing the work, just somewhere else.

I have to give myself a little credit, even when that credit is a little less measurable than pretty crooked numbers on a clean crisp stats page.

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As artists, we judge each other, but we judge ourselves the hardest. I am humbled, once again, by just how mean and dark my own brain can be.

Today I’m here. I am a writer. I’m putting down words. I am saying what is on my heart. I might get two views (from my two family members also on this platform — hi!) or I might get 100. I might get curated. I might not.

I am going to try to ignore the reads and percentages and pennies and just write for the joy of letting words flow from my brain to my fingers to this electronic form.

I wrote something today, and I am proud of these 700+ words. They are all mine and they are beautiful.

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This item first appeared on Medium, find more of my work @karenfayeth over there.

Ginkgo

A Literal Metaphor

 

Photo by Xiaolong Wong on Unsplash

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It’s a gray, cold winter morning. I open the front door and gale force winds push me back. I try to believe it’s a sign that I shouldn’t go to work today, that Mother Nature needs me to stay home, but even I don’t buy that story.

I turn to lock the door behind me while sideways rain pelts my back. Once the tumblers fall into place, I turn into the wind and face it head on, squinting at the horizon as fog rolls and swirls in the street. This is winter in Northern California. This is what it does. I remind myself that as a Californian I am supposed to be thankful for the rain. I am thankful in an existential way. But I am not thankful, not today.

Holding the handrail with both hands, I make my way down one, two, eight steps to street level. Slow progress, necessary due to the slick wet palm and maple leaves stacked up on each riser.

At the sidewalk I stand up straight again, and realize my car is not where I left it. Sleep addled brain has something to tell me. Wait for it. Oh right, I got home late last night and had to park well down the street. This should be fun.

The best word to describe what I do is trudge. I trudge down the block and find my car where I left it, parked in front of a neighbor’s house. The neighbor with the adorable corgi dog.

Also the neighbor with the small ginkgo tree growing on the berm between the sidewalk and the street. I’ve left my tired and faded black Jeep safely under the branches of this little tree. The wind and rain have assisted in the removal of leaves from branches and deposited them on my car.

The bright sunny yellow ginkgo leaves are a startling contrast to the dark clouds both hovering low in the sky and infused in my mood. I’ll allow that the yellow ginkgo leaves are kind of pretty. This bright pile of nature’s sunny hue against the black paint of my car is a delicious morsel of something joyful in an otherwise dull day.

The leaves are piled high, covering the roof and windshield. I’ve only recently returned from a work trip to a place where it gets really cold. The kind of cold that requires ice scrapers and snow sweepers. I look at the pile of leaves on my windshield and wish I had one of those small snow brooms in my car, but I don’t. And I’m glad that I don’t need one. I hate scraping windows.

I opt for the “drive very fast” methodology of leaf removal. Windshield wipers give me enough space to see out the window to drive and off I go in a bright yellow cloud of beauty, fluttering like butterflies in my rearview mirror.

Most are gone by the first mile, but a few hang on, shellacked to the windows by a sturdy winter wet. Adhered. Stuck.

When I pull into the parking lot at work, there is one particular ginkgo leaf that has become my little buddy. Right there on the left side of the windshield, we became ride or die on the commute. I drove faster and it hung on tighter. I imaged a little leafy “whoo hooo!” when we really got going on the highway.

Now at rest, I pluck the leaf from the glass and gaze at it closely, studying the lines and whorls. I can’t bear to drop it on the ground and walk away, so I don’t. Inside it goes with me. I set the leaf on my work desk and spend all day looking at it, picking it up, examining from every angle. It’s so cute. So pretty. So yellow.

A bit of cheer during another dreary work video conference call. While we pick low hanging fruit and maximize our ROI, I turn the leaf over in my hands just off camera. It makes me smile. A reminder that something beautiful exists.


Photo by the author,©2019 Karen Fayeth

But as the days will do, time passes. The sun goes down, and I pack up and go home, leaving my friend on the desk for the next day. And the next.

Then it’s the holidays and my employer shuts the doors and I slip in a few extra vacation days too. Two weeks away from work and I forget about my ginkgo friend.

When I return to work it’s a sunny day. A new year. A new outlook. The same old me. My personal clouds are a little less dark.

The leaf is still on my desk. The bright yellow has faded to a dull beige. The sides have curled in. The broad leaf is now a tight roll. And yet it is still beautiful in its now gnarled and aged way.

I can’t bear to throw it away, so I don’t.

Not yet.


Photo by the author, ©2020 Karen Fayeth

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It is only after writing this true story that I remember Ginkgo leaves turn bright yellow just before they die.

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This item first appeared on Medium, find more of my work @karenfayeth over there.