“Have fun on your trip? . . .”

I sat there clutching my knees together on the shower floor the other evening, as I felt the burn of thousands of hot water pellets cascading down on the top of my head, then quickly warming my goose pimpled skin. My internal thermostat had lowered so much I was trying to bring my core temp back to what would seem like an acceptable level, just to be able to exit the tub altogether.

After a while, I looked up from the wet, stark white porcelain tile, and there billowing through the wafting waves of steam, it had appeared that the shower curtain had started to grow legs. Longer dare I say, than any pair I had ever seen in real life. It was right about then that I started to wonder just how long this psychedelic roller coaster was going to have me strapped in for.

My second thought was, I paid money.

To do this.

To myself.

It’s kind of like in my drinking years when I would reward myself for crushin’ it at work, as if to say hey, job well done you deserve a massive hangover.

It wasn't the visual movement of the shower walls, or the tattered loofah waving to say hello. I think for me, it was the full body tremors, burning bubble guts and borderline hypothermia that made me realize I might be a wee bit sensitive to fungi extracurriculars.

If it weren't bad enough that in the years past I have had to quit alcohol, my body is now adamantly saying wait, what? Are you trying to sneak in enlightenment? Polite pass. The directions on the chocolate bar said one to four squares can be considered a “mind opening” microdose of all things so how in the world did I end up like this?

(side note, I do have to admit amidst all of the agony, for about 15 minutes I managed to jot down some pretty good concepts)

As if spending twelve hours in complete misery wasn’t enough the first time, I thought I would try the whole thing over again a week later. You know, just to make sure.

Same dose. Same settings.

You need a baseline for these kinds of things.

The entire reaction repeated, once again, finding me cuddled up on the bathroom floor trying not to sweat and freeze to death all at the same time.

Was it the brand? Should I switch it up and try something else?

Alright, let’s do that. Third time’s a charm then.

Not for me it wasn’t.

I found myself once again in agony for the third time, just one hour after ingestion. Only to find that more expensive for me, just means it takes longer for the reaction to surface.

How in the world did wanting to expand my mind just a titch make me so desperate that I would be willing to put myself through that kind of misery not once, not twice, but three times.

Thrice.

Something tells me that in a past life, I may have been the village taste tester person for poisonous mushrooms.

“Aye, give it to RaeAnne, she’s dumb enough to eat anything in the name of enlightenment”.

“And three times at that”.

Which is so funny, because anyone who knows me, knows I am leery of anything that will make me feel super out of control, so it took me quite a bit of years to mentally prep just to get to this point to dip my pinky toe in the water.

Does my frustration from being sensitive to these kinds of things stem from the fear of missing out? (aka fomo) I mean, when I think of missing out on micro gnomes dancing across my lawn vs. avoiding this agony all ever again in my life, I am pretty sure I am fully choosing the option of avoidance.

Lately I am on what seems to be an insatiable quest to expand my mind and unlock what else could be hiding in there. I have a new theory that I’m working through. That maybe the need for answers and expansion is because I am getting so close to completing my first book. To be quite honest, it’s probably also the fear of being judged, that is causing this subconscious delay. As lately I seem to be trying to find any other reason out there as to not finish.

Because you see, if I finish, I publish.

If I publish, people read. And where there’s reading, there lies judgement, and judgement and I go way back. It’s still the one monster that I leap over to avoid when getting into bed at night.

Yes at 46 I still have a deep seeded fear of what could be lurking under my bed.

I’ve also been thinking a lot lately about contentment, and if we are ever supposed to truly achieve it or not.

What is contentment exactly.

I think whatever it is, it probably looks different for everyone, and at any age.

In my younger years, society seemed to radiate the core value that if you have time to rest, it may just be time to get another job.

Time to lean? Time to clean. That sort of thing.

Which makes for a great work ethic, but for me, always has had the side effect of not being able to enjoy sitting still for very long. There seems to be a constant ebb and flow in me trying to find a harmonious balance when it comes to that, but not a process I mind at all.

Having an online presence regardless of the reason, can often make us feel as though we aren’t bringing enough to the table. I catch myself gauging my value and success on likes, shares, sales and what not, all the time.

Because my online presence was originally for marketing my business, I can understand how I was bound to feel this way at one point or another. Regardless of how many times I repeatedly told myself that that type of rating system used in social media, is not tied to my actual self-worth.

I have also come to the realization that the title of this essay should actually be “How many times can I put why in an essay.”

I discover that when I find myself searching for the further meaning into my individual existence or purpose, is when I am at rest. Ironically, that same stage of rest is when I am supposed to be experiencing contentment. only all I feel is that I should get back work.

It can be a vicious circle if you don’t do the work to get gently pull yourself back out.

To feel more grounded lately when the other parts of my brain want to take me on a hike to overthink mountain is this little ditty-

I am a mom, a wife, a daughter, a friend. All of those things are part of my purpose in this existence. Whatever I choose to enhance life with beyond that, is up to me and is not destined by some device in my hand.

If we ever were to find out our life’s purpose, would it cease to have happiness, more or less meaning?

Without a goal or something to achievement, I suppose life would become very dull and tasteless. Especially if you already knew the answers to everything you were being asked.

There are times when inside myself, way inside, I feel there is this person at the helm who is fearless, has life all figured out, and is frantically waving her arms shouting, “Here! Here! I’m right here! Put me in!”

And I walk over, shake her hand, pass this like invisible spirit stick and we instantaneously morph into one another. Like on Jem and the Holograms when she touched her magic star earrings to become her alter persona.

Somewhere many years back, my mind started telling me that if I wasn’t making or selling something, who I was as a person, was not enough.

I had tied my self-worth to what I could bring to the table, the products I created, the work I produced. Instead of my worth equally being about what made me, me.

I’m still untangling that way of thinking, because unfortunately it’s rooted pretty deep. That’s probably why this writing journey has become so important to me. It is forcing me to look at what is left over when I am not building something on a large scale. Which to be honest, some days feels pretty uncomfortable and others, feels pretty kick ass.

Imagine an inner judge and jury so harsh that while doing the very things that bring you joy, you manage to allow them to sneak in and hiss in your ear “we don’t remember telling you you could take a break”.

I don’t remember putting myself up on a pedestal, but why I had to choose that high.

Damn.

Do you remember the old adage “If you can’t beat em, join em”?

Did anybody else just kind of go, what the hell…when given that advice? It was basically a way of saying there’s no way you’re going to get ahead, so you may as well just give up now.

These days the phrase for phoning it in is just a shortened “fuck it”.

Although I have heard “chuck it in the fuck it bucket and move on” and I do use that one from time to time when I’ve had just about enough.

In fact, I think the fuck it people came in and told the if you can't beat em, join em guys, look, we’ve got a much shorter slogan so get on board because we’re going with fuck it now. It’s where it’s at.

Finding out what worked for my own sanity has been somewhat of a journey. The obvious place to start was to simply, unplug.

It’s hard to break the habit of being online when it is also a means to your entrepreneurial survival.

Always going offline during anything important, to make sure I’m present, is the first tool I implement when I am feeling overwhelmed. It has changed the way my brain was basically starting to rewire itself around technology. Do I miss out on things here and there, sure, but when I start to feel hesitant for unplugging, I always remind myself that it is the best decision I can make in that moment, for me and my mental health.

Close your eyes for 20 seconds and picture what your world would look like without social media.

Does it feel isolating, maybe scary? Often the word liberating gets thrown about. Or maybe you already unplug on a daily basis.

When I picture myself completely offline, I imagine riding down a long dirt road on that old pink Huffy bike. The one with a squishy seat from rain the night before with the damp seat. Pink and white plastic streamers hanging from each handlebar, billowing in the late August breeze and whizzing past the birch trees with the smell of fresh cut grass, ditch lilies and parsnips filling my entire head.

For others, a world offline may look like penning a letter to an old friend across town to find out if the deer ate the remainder of her hostas again this year.

I mean hey, it looks different for everybody.

While I’m thinking of it, I might try to score an old 87’ pink Huffy and take it down that long dirt road for just one more joyride.

Can you imagine if the people who live there now, just randomly looked out of their kitchen window one day and were like,

“Why in the hell is there a lady on a kid’s bike with streamers, riding up and down our driveway bawling her eyes out?”

If that were to happen, they would probably just hop online anyway and make a reel because it would make for great content.

You see the tug of war that an online presence presents.

Familiar scenario: that moment was super funny, where’s my phone

Instantaneously: our brains subconsciously reach for a device to hit record.

Rather than allowing our serotonin and other emotions to just simply soak it in the moment, it passes. Our brains do not experience what our eyes see, the same as what is recalled in the palm of our hand.

This past year has taught me that life, indeed, is short. Sometimes it seems as though my subconscious keeps forgetting the harshness of that reality until I am faced with it directly.

I often find myself wondering, if I left this world tomorrow, (freebird still rules) would I be proud of who I was, and what I did.

Would my family be proud.

I am thankful that learning from regret early on in life, taught me a lot about the kind of person I wanted to be moving forward into adulthood.

Just as profound as regret can be, joy also has its moments. When I close my eyes, one of the things that brings me joy lately are my newly acquired laugh lines.

Oh how genuinely gooood it feels to laugh, doesn’t it?

Really, really laugh.

Like when you grabbed your side as a child with both arms, laying on the floor, tears streaming down until your hair was soaking wet kind of laugh. Or the laugh that is so intense you think your muscles might actually get stuck that way.

Laughter means so much to my emotional control panel, and at so many different phases in my life.

If I’m thinking back on what has grown those sweet little lines over four decades, I can easily start with when I was just little. I can feel the autumn orange shag carpet under my scratchy wool pajamas at my first slumber party giggling until the wee hours of the morning.

Or watching my dad sing this insanely ridiculous song at jams about a monkey, a woman, and Tarzan, doing all of the hilarious actions while singing and playing his guitar.

And in motherhood?

Definitely my daughter and her hilarious ability to deliver a movie quote so flawlessly, it cramps our cheeks for what feels like weeks. Well, basically anything she says in general.

And more recently, laughter amongst friends you can't imagine life without, when life has handed you some of its worst moments.

It’s even a funny sounding word, laughter. Were we given laughter because we have to experience it’s complete opposite, sadness?

I feel as though for the rest of my time, I will be asking questions like this, searching for answers, and in the midst of it all,

Fungi free.

Unless it's on my Caesar salad.

As long as I have wonderment, I will forever have stories.

And will continue to bring you along if you’re up for it.

Thank you for taking the time to sit with me.