About a month ago I finished writing the book, THE BOOK I have been working on for the last 5 years. It’s crazy to work on something so long and when you finally feel like you are done, you want it to be just that… finito. Well it is sort of.

As much as I wanted to close that book, pun intended, and move on to something else, I have realized that writing a book is much more than just putting words on paper, it is the equivalent of launching a business and as a result, you need to know your market. Turns out there’s all sorts of criteria for what makes a book successful including:

• word count — most books are under 100,000 words
• your platform — how many social media accounts you have and how many followers
• your budget — no matter what, it costs money

So when I “finished” my book, it was at 267,000 words, way over the recommended amount. Trying to cut it down by 2/3 seemed daunting. But I’ve been talking with tons of people who have written books, helped others write books, etc. and basically what I’ve discovered is that I wrote effectively 3, perhaps even 4 books in one. After my beta readers have finished reading the odyssey that I have written, I’ll take their feedback and go for it.

Meanwhile, I’m going to focus on building my platform and connecting with my future audience.

I know I have not post much in a long time. There is a reason: I got overwhelmed. My trip to NYC to gather all my father’s things out of storage was beyond exhausting. When I was doing it, the power of the whole experience and its significance to my life, combined with the adrenaline of actually doing it, propelled me to share throughout. But, once I got back, I was faced with the mountainous mess of all I had to deal with and the emotions that came with it so quickly I was overwhelmed.

When I’m overwhelmed I simply retreat. This happens to me a lot. When I get excited about something I dive in headfirst, give it all my energy, but it’s simply not sustainable and eventually I fizzle out. So while I have continued to sort through my father’s estate, I had to take a break from sharing it moment by moment because that is just one sliver of my life and there are many other slivers demanding my attention.

So now I finally feel ready to share… something. I’m really excited that the book is close to being complete and then I can move on to editing before seeking a publisher. In the process of writing I have also been decoding my own life, understanding my beliefs, reflexes, attitudes, and triggers. It’s an ongoing process but I have managed to identify a few key patterns that have plagues me my whole adult life.

Recently I started dating someone. I’ve been single for a long time. While I have dated for a few months here and there, my last serious relationship was over eight years ago. People are sometimes perplexed by this because in there eyes I’m attractive, intelligent, a good cook… they see a catch. So why have I remained single?

Well the answer to that question is a complex one but let me say this. Who you attract, and more importantly, who you chose to engage with, whether in romance, friendship, or business, is all your choice. I knew what I wanted but there was a pattern that kept derailing me from reaching my goal. That is where the title of this post comes from.

People talk about the thrill of falling in love. The rush of the emotional connection with physical intimacy can be like a drug. For me however, it evokes a combination of excitement and fear rooted in some deep trauma that associated being in love with being trapped. So, on the one hand, like any other, I would become intoxicated with the thrill of someone new, but I would also be afraid that the potential relationship would keep me hostage in a way. It’s hard to explain if you aren’t in my head. It wasn’t about any particular limit, it was just the association of love with being controlled. After my childhood, I refused to let anyone control me.

So what happened? Initially I would pick partners who were weaker than me in some way. They might have less money, not be as smart, be from another country so they were dependent on me in some way, or another type of difference that kept me feeling free, like I could walk away at any time without consequence. And I did, over and over. My lengths of relationships would get shorter and shorter as I realized quicker what I had brought into my life.

Then I tried to look for more of an equal, for a balanced relationship by finding someone who could stand by my side versus just let me do it all. Problem with that was I was so fearful of being controlled OR of them just abandoning the relationship, that I would push the new relationship ahead artificially into a more serious one. But, because it was pushed versus happening naturally, one of us would bail soon after because it would become too much.

What I realized recently is why I did this. It is because I wanted the middle. I didn’t want to stay in the newness of being with someone where you didn’t know how it would work out, where you were hopeful but cautious, in the unformed realm between dating and a relationship. That is why if the person made it to the point where I would consider a relationship, I wanted to get there right away. I realize now that it doesn’t work that way.

I long for that quiet time when words don’t have to be spoken or even kisses given. A time when just a look from your person can feel like you are making love. When you can find your partner attractive whether dressed up or down and when you know this is your person. I don’t think I’ve ever truly had that and I think in part, it is because I’ve never truly allowed it to happen.

So here’s to trying to break through old patterns. Whether this new person works out or not, I am determined to be my own advocate, one who reminds myself that I am worthy of love but also does not try to force the progress just to be in the middle. The time will come.

My cane resting in front of me.

We arrive in NYC late last night. After a 7:30pm flight we got to the JFK airport early but then had to sit on the tarmac for about 45 minutes. I had asked for a wheelchair assistance which was the best idea but was weird at first. Sitting in the chair being pushed pass everyone was a lot to adjust to. It brought up memories of my childhood. But it made the trip manageable instead of brutal which it would have been otherwise.

Some pictures from the journey. Top row: first picture shows that Elsa has a much better navigation than I do, selfie then departures in JFK. Second row: waiting for a wheelchair, on the skywalk, waiting for a taxi. Third row: in the taxi then arrived at hotel.

We got to our hotel just after midnight. We are staying in lower Manhattan, near Chinatown and just a few blocks from where I used to live.

Our home for a few nights.

In anticipation of my upcoming trip to New York which I leave for tonight with my daughter, I have set up Life in Captivity on various channels. I have created my first introductory video on YouTube, which I have embedded below.

In addition, you can follow on Facebook and Instagram.

Seven days and a few hours from now I will be flying to NYC with my daughter for a rite of passage in the true meaning of the word. It will be a complex and adventurous trip that I will be updating about on here as I can.

It always comes down to fathers…

My father was born David Benton Young in Eastham, Massachusetts. He changed his middle initial to X when he became an artist. His mother, Christine, was a romance novelist. His father, Nelson, was a jazz saxophonist. Two days after my father was born, his father decided he wasn’t up to the responsibility of being a father and committed suicide.

In May of 2001 my father passed. We had been estranged and was five years since I had seen him. Yet I came right away when I heard the news. I came and I stayed, for months, as I wrestled with the memories of a complicated past in my father’s loft, the love of NYC, and the responsibilities of being the sole heir. I stayed and I was there, one mile away on September 11, 2001. I saw it all. I had to flee.

With my father’s death I inherited a massive collection of drawings, painting, photographs, slides, films, over 10,000 pieces of art I estimated. Most of it was in storage. Mixed in with all of it was some of my childhood artwork, my diaries, my father’s scrapbooks which were mostly photographs of me, and his journals. After 9/11 I was ready to leave NYC so I spent the several month process of clearing out the loft and moving the storage outside of the city.

It always comes down to fathers…

In 2003 I moved to the Dominican Republic — too long a story for this post but suffice to say that I always wanted to live in another country so took the chance when it presented itself. In the DR I continued to pay on the storage unit that housed my father’s legacy. Time passed and children came. The financial burden got too much. My father had been abusive to me when I lived with him. In some way it felt like he still was abusing me. I had to consider my children. I could not go broke paying to store my abusive father’s art. I decided to relinquish it all and let it go to auction. I saw no other option. I did not seek assistance.

Then, my half-brother (different father and barely knew mine) saw a business opportunity and said that he would take over the payments and market the work. He really did think he could sell my father’s art and not only make money himself but for the entire family. But, for some reason, he did not do this in partnership with me but rather competitive. I didn’t really understand why but I didn’t worry about it. I had relinquished it after all.

Now my father was 100% an asshole but he was also very talented and had a wonderful eye for color and form. I knew a lot about him as a person, as an artist, and also about his work. I was present for quite a bit of it. Yet despite all this, my brother chose to exclude me from the marketing of my father’s work. I felt bad but for years I still could not consider taking over the storage payments so I had to let the whole situation go. I just always helped with any information that my brother needed in hopes that the work would sell but no matter what, none did.

It always comes down to fathers…

Homfort, Watercolor, painted in Haiti by David X Young.

For the last three years I have been writing my autobiography. That is what this site is dedicated to after all. I am close to completion but for the last year or so, I have been wanting to get my father’s journals and scrapbooks out of the storage. My brother has always been difficult but I was able to ignore it. Now, however, I needed something from him, storage access, and for some reason, he chose to make it really difficult. I know I’m the sole heir and have the legal right, etc. but I did not want to start a family war so I waited. While I have been waiting over this year, I have tried different tactics — from being pushy to friendly to diplomatic — to get my brother to let me in. Finally, as of June 1st, he did. The entire unit is now in my name.

Now I don’t know exactly what is left. I haven’t seen the contents for a while. I know my brother has some of the art and has donated or sold some pieces but all in all I don’t care. What I do know, is that I want to get up to the unit as soon as possible.

So next Saturday night I will take an evening flight up to NYC with my daughter. We will Uber to a hotel in Chinatown, just a few blocks from the loft I shared with my father. The first day in the city will be Father’s Day. The irony does not escape because not only is this trip about my father but my daughter will get to see her father in the city and I will get to see a dear friend and former teacher who is a major father figure for me.

We will spend three nights in the city and then take the train to upstate NY where the storage is located. There we will taxi to the rental van location, drive that to the storage unit where we will meet some guys I’ve hired and they will load up the van. I will drive it down to Florida, with my daughter, over the next few days. It will be an adventure and also a physically challenging trip. I am going to try to pace myself. Stay tuned as I will document this rite of passage…

It always comes down to fathers…

I’m writing the part of my book where I am around the same age as my own daughter. It has been eye opening to return my mind to back then while watching how she navigates the world. My father kept me out of school from the middle of sixth grade until tenth. I went from a small school on the coast of Maine to being thrust into a giant city and living with him in a dirty loft in lower Manhattan. I was cut off from my peers and all other family for nearly four years.

While I’ve always known this as a fact of my life, I only thought of it in terms of the schooling I had missed and how luckily, I was able to catch up and even excel academically. I was grateful that my absence of education did not retard my opportunity for college and a career. What I didn’t acknowledge, or frankly even realize, is that academics were the easiest to catch up, the really impact of my isolation was socially.

I’ve always felt a bit split in two. Not in a personality sense, but deeper. I have aspects of my life where I feel strong and confident but others where I feel weak and uncertain. These aspects directly stem from those four years. I think about it now and it is obvious. I remember how different my daughter was in sixth grade to how she is now in tenth. I think about all those personas she played with, all the changes she went through and is still going through. As she has grown, her circle of friends has changed, her sense of self has matured.

I missed the opportunity for all of that. I had no one to build me up, to encourage me to laugh and play with life. I had no one to help me in relationships, to remind me of my worth and what to allow in my life. I became serious and shy. When I did go back to school, I had no idea what to do or who to be. It was a terrifying time. I buried myself in books and ignored everything else.

Fast forward to present day. I’m 55 and until recently, I was still carrying around that sense of self from way back in tenth grade — the part of me that feared being the butt of jokes, of not fitting, of being left out. Those four years held so much of my true personality back. Now I live in a lovely community and know lots of people who are friendly to me but even so, that ghost of who I became still lingered. That is until I found my tribe.

I don’t quite know how I found this private Facebook group of women. Someone must have invited me to it a few years back. I remember I decided to go to an event one night and stayed shyly in the background. Months later I went to another. For over a year, I would dip my toe in the water of friendship and quickly pull it out again in retreat.

Then one day I went to one of their events after being absent for a while and the woman who started the group greeted me exuberantly “Eliza!” she said loudly and ran up to give me a big hug. I was taken aback. It was so unexpected. I even looked around to see if she meant someone else before she wrapped her arms around me. That one gesture was remarkable and I found myself believing that she was really happy to see me.

Now this may seem like a minor thing but for me, I had created this image of myself as unlikeable. Friendship was serious and rare for me. Yet here I was being welcomed so enthusiastically by someone I didn’t know all that well. I started going to more events and made more friends until something wonderful happened. I finally shed that shy, wounded shell I had encased myself in and allowed my true self, one that is playful and fun, to have permission to emerge.

I spent so much of my life being serious, surviving ordeals from numerous hospitalizations to an oppressive father, that I had forgotten how to be playful, to be free, to enjoy life. These women may not look like shamans, but their very act of unconditional friendship has freed me and I am forever grateful. I was inspired to write this poem.

Sisterhood

my friendships were so fleeting
milkweed wisps in the wind
fragile tendrils of connection
far too easy to rescind

for years I never trusted
still flinching from the spurs
mean words, sideways glances
waiting to be mocked once more

some women become weavers
spiders spinning from their soul
they bound me in acceptance
until my heart healed its holes

we cannot live as nomads
so search for ways to intersect
a tribe that always welcomes
with laughter instead of regret

©2023 Eliza Alys Young

Featured image credit.

i wish to detox
the source of my thoughts
ones that diminish my worth
or question my very place on this earth

i’ll cleanse the belief
that pain, struggle and grief
is mine to carry with shame
as if I’m really the one to blame

the journey towards love
is truth spoken of
from pain to joy and in between
remembering what can’t be unseen

my wings will unfurl
as I free the girl
who’s life had trampled her down,
not realizing she had her own crown

soon i will fly high,
let pain pass me by
for just happiness I seek
all that has passed shall never repeat

3.11.23

It’s New Year’s Day. This post is not a reflection on the past year nor a list of what I intend for the coming year. No, it is just a post of what’s on my mind and today seems a good enough time to write it.

Two months ago, I was driving along a busy road. It wasn’t a highway, but had traffic over 60 mph. It was mostly rural. I was just past the intersection where you can turn onto the interstate when I looked to my right and saw a full grown male peacock just strolling along the side of the road, about 6 feet away from the traffic.

Come to find out, there is someone in the area that raises peacocks and sometimes they get out and walk along the road. So there is a logical explanation, but sometimes the logical isn’t really what you should pay attention to.

I believe things happen for a reason. Not everyone does, and I respect that, but for me it has always been true. Whenever my attention has been directly drawn to something, it always means something later. Always. So perhaps seeing a peacock wasn’t as extraordinary as it first seemed, but that doesn’t mean it still wasn’t significant to me.

I posted about it on our local Facebook groups. That’s how I found out that the peacocks have been in that area for years. But one person said that they had driven along that road for over 7 years and had never seen one. Seeing that peacock was special.

I began to think about what that sighting meant and for me, and after much reflection, I came to the conclusion that it was about being my authentic self. Let me explain…

I survived a difficult childhood by practicing being invisible. I learned that if I stayed still and quiet, the adults around me forgot I was there. I found safety in not being seen. All my life I attracted attention. Sometimes it was for things I felt bad about like my crooked legs, but other times it was for my talent and intelligence. Believe it or not, I saw both forms of attention to be bad. I didn’t want to stand out, I wanted to blend in.

Problem was, that is impossible for me. My life was crazy enough for me to write a book about it. I survived a lot and experiences some were really different, some were very cool. Add to that my insatiable desire to learn new things, to push myself; I always have been very driven. When I’m interested in something I immerse myself until I get really good at it. I don’t do anything halfway, it’s always “go big or go home” with me.

A peacock doesn’t blend in. Its plumage announces its arrival. It is not meant to camouflage, but rather to stand tall and walk with a strut. The peacock I saw reminded me that I too can’t blend in. It is time to stop apologizing for my plumage, for my ability to attract attention, and instead be proud of my uniqueness and step out into the light.

So this year is just a continuation of my journey. Slowly I’m getting more comfortable with myself and what makes me stand out. I am trying to flip the narrative. Instead of feeling bad that my legs don’t allow me to run and jump, I’m grateful that I can walk. Instead of worrying that I’m talking too loud, I’m thankful I have friends that want to listen. And instead of feeling like I need to “soften” my story because it is too intense for some, I’m writing it all down in a book.

Happy New Year.