Anxious Muse

I've fought anxiety and depression issues for a good portion of my life. The smallest "whoops!" situations would turn into the biggest embarrassments, and when you're as clumsy as I am, that's a big issue. But it's not just my lack of physical grace that gives me anxiety - it's the constant nagging thought that I'm too clumsy, too slow, too unintelligent, too big, too fat, too uncomfortable in my own skin to be good enough for anyone, myself included. 

So I've been on a quest to find a way to chill. The past couple years that quest has landed me in the doctor's office for a chemical cocktail to calm me down. We recently found a combination that stopped the voice in my head from constantly berating me for, well, being me. When that voice shut up, I rejoiced. No more "too this or that" thoughts or cringing at moments from twenty years ago that were remotely embarrassing.

During the past month, I started watching more TV instead of writing. Shows like Fixer Upper and Love It or List It became my nightly routine. I continued to read, but the stories just didn't do anything for me anymore. Even my favorite novels didn't hold my attention. 

I had no anxiety, but I also had no strong emotions. I didn't get upset over anything but, then again, I didn't get excited about anything, either. 

I just didn't care. 

Slowly I saw myself beginning to eat more sweets - my old go-to comfort food - and pizza, too. I stopped working out so hard. It didn't matter anymore. I'd found freedom from my anxiety at the cost of my emotions - ALL of my emotions. 

But the worst of it was, I couldn't hear my muse anymore. Where she normally was, was nothing. Not an empty space even. It was as if she had never been there. 

And still, I. Just. Didn't. Care. 

And that alarmed me. A person should care about something. To be human we should have some emotions, some joy and some sadness, some anger and some love. We need these things to be human. 

I discussed everything with my husband, telling him how I felt I'd lost a significant part of myself. We agreed, and with my doctor's blessing, I stopped the new medication - the one that turned off my anxiety. 

Almost immediately, my muse came back. 

She whispered softly at first, a promise of things to come. In that first wonderful, relief-filled moment I realized how I'd been silly to think that I was better of without my anxiety. Sure, anxiety's a bitch some days, and in the days since my muse came back, I remembered why I went on the quest for equilibrium in the first place. 

But without that irritating voice, I can't feel anything. And without emotions, I can't hear my muse. 

That's unacceptable. She is an integral part of me, along with all her quirks - all my quirks. We are, after all, one and the same. 

I could go on; waxing philosophic about why we need our emotions to be human and so on and so forth. But now that she's beginning to talk to me again, I don't want to waste any more time without feelings, without...anxiety. 

Sometimes the things that irritate us the most are the things that we need the most. Strange how that works, huh? 

Why is "Feminism" a Bad Word?

I spend a lot of my down time in the company of men. That most likely comes from growing up with three older brothers and seeing how they were given preferential treatment. A person naturally goes the route to get the most attention, and boys seemed to get more attention than girls just because they were boys. 

Regardless of the reason, to this day I find myself more comfortable in the company of men. 

So when the topic of feminism came up, I saw the horror in one friend's gaze. "You're not a feminist, are you?" he asked me, something akin to fear in his gaze. 

Amusement burst through me. He's ex-military and has faced down worse things than I'll ever be able to conceive of, yet the thought of dueling with a feminist gave him qualms. I indicated the affirmative and something flashed in his gaze. "But a true feminist doesn't just want equality for women but for both genders," I added as this is a belief of mine. "After all, it isn't fair for a woman to say that we shouldn't be made into sex symbols and then turn around and say a man has to have a certain physique or he isn't a real man." 

A flash of surprise crossed his gaze. "Oh," he said. And, "Really?" Then he told the story he had in mind, which I cannot recall at the moment, but can imagine did not paint women in the brightest colors. 

It is a difficult thing to be a self-hating feminist. Growing up seeing women subjected to the will of the men around them, I grew to hate my innate feminine. "Feminist" was a word I often heard coming from men dripping with loathing. But why would a word inspire such an emotion? 

Why is feminism a bad word? 

As I've studied over the past years, I've come to determine that perhaps it isn't the word that is "bad" so much as the fear it inspires. After all, anger is often used to cover up fear, and women being empowered - perhaps even overpowering men - has to be a frightful prospect to a person who is used to being deferred to, waited on, etc. 

This blog comes to mind because I received a call from one of the few women I consider a close friend today. I could have cried during our conversation. She was upset because a male relative - someone she hasn't seen in years - is staying with them and has made several misogynistic comments. She's outnumbered three to one at the moment and despite being able to hold her own in an argument, sometimes even the most logical of arguments won't hold water to someone who truly believes they are right. 

For instance, once upon a time I argued with my grandfather about a verse in the Holy Bible. I cannot remember the specific verse, however, when I showed him the page, chapter, and verse I spoke of, he asked me one question: what version of the Bible is that? I told him and his response was, "that's not the right version." 

The "right" version...of the Holy Bible. Yes, I realize that more weight is put upon certain versions over others, yet even now, my reaction is really? I mean...really??

So...a book heavily edited by men can have its authenticity called into question because of the current version that is being used. 

My teenage mind was blown. I was right; I knew I was right and my father and several others at the table during the discussion agreed with me. However, this one man refused to see my point of view because of something that shouldn't have mattered. I didn't bother to pull out his so-called "correct" version because I knew it wouldn't matter to him even if the verses were verbatim. He had his mind made up and anyone who said differently was wrong. 

And that's what my friend is facing right now: that kind of close-minded belief that ignores common sense and puts blinders on the believer to any other walk of life. There is no arguing with that kind of belief.

Just like those times as a child when I heard male authority figures speak the word "feminism" or "feminist" as if even speaking the word put a bad taste in the speaker's mouth, this conversation gave me the same feeling...that by dint of being a woman, we are "less than." By dint of a genetic quirk, I am a woman and even that is taken from women - the male parent determines the gender of the child, after all. 

How does a woman hold her head up under the weight of such a powerless existence? 

By creating feminism and by being feminists. We require the empowerment of a word that strikes fear into the hearts of (some) men and maybe it's wrong, but it gives me a heady feeling of euphoria to know I wield some sort of power over the other half of the planet's population. 

Generations of women have been subjected to the will of others, yet we have survived and today we thrive. We make the decisions about when or even if we have children. We decide to go out into the workforce for a career if we want one. We realize that we have a choice! We can sit back and feel victimized or we can fight back. Sometimes fighting back gets nasty. Sometimes men don't even realize we are fighting back. Hell, sometimes we don't even realize we are fighting back because our rebellion is such a small, seemingly insignificant thing - but what matters is that we lift our heads up high and refuse to cower. 

I am Amber Joelle, daughter of Lolita Ann, daughter of Serena, daughter of Clara Lillie Bell, daughter of Lula Watt. I am proud to be a daughter of strong women who fought for what freedoms I have today. And when I'm feeling subjected, all I have to do is look back at them and I remember that I have a choice: let myself become victimized, or thrive. 

It's a difficult thing to learn to love oneself after seeing how women are treated as less than and every day is a struggle to remember this choice. 

I choose to thrive. 

How Do You Market Yourself?

Seriously. How do you market yourself? 

Coming from a heavily-religious background, I learned to not put myself forward. I would bend over backwards to avoid drawing attention to myself because I had to be humble. Pride, after all, is a sin. 

So I took no pride in the things I did, or if I did take pride in them, it was quietly, so that no one knew. I got used to not getting a lot of attention for any other reason than that I'm a girl. But that's another story for another time.

I cannot count on that single thing to bring attention to myself. And not putting myself forward is the exact opposite of what I need to do to market myself. So how do I do it? 

I find it difficult to talk about my stories. Even my husband doesn't know much about them aside from when I ask his advice on how the male gender would react in a certain situation, lol. So I have embarked on a "quest" to talk to someone about them as often as possible. 

In this internet age, I find myself often doing this on Facebook or Twitter. Particularly on my Twitter account, which is @AmberSManuel, I find other authors reaching out to me in unique ways. One messaged me saying something along the lines of "I'd drink bleach to get you to look at my novel...don't make me do it!" While that is a very unique and attention-grabbing method, I feel it distracts from the story. For instance, in college, I had a class in Comp & Rhetoric. Almost immediately, I became intensely bored with the class, and only a handful of things stick out from it: 1) the professor ate a piece of chalk and 2) the cursing in literature paper I wrote.

Can you tell me what the second thing was without looking back up? If not, then you had the same reaction I did: I remember vividly where the professor stood, what he wore, and the disgusted expression on his face as he masticated the piece of chalk, but I have no clue what point he attempted to drive home with that tactic. 

That being said, it certainly stuck out in my mind. Does it make me want to go back through my notes from the class and figure out what we were talking about? No. Did the author's "I'll drink bleach" tactic work? I'll admit that I checked out the link, but I didn't buy the book because it wasn't a genre I like. 

So how do I grab a potential reader's attention and get them to my page and to actually purchase and read my novels? Well, I liked another Tweeter's method: start up a conversation in instant message. Ask a question to get the conversation going and then lead the conversation where I want it to go: like my page, buy my book, etc. 

I tend towards shyness (another trait that I firmly believe is a product of my "humble  beginnings") but it can't be harder than striking up a conversation with the person in line in front of me at the grocery store, right? 

I'll get back to you on that once I learn more about this method from a personal point of view.