Sing Like Dolly: Past Predicts Present & Future 🔮

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At two years of age, Dolly Parton was my idol.  In fact, I should have been the creator of an American Idol genre of entertainment, as my wide eyed vision of fame and the game was futuristic and quite unreal.

When I was younger, maybe eight, I asked my Mum to take me to a general “famous” audition to be a singer or an actress.  Aside from wanting to be just like my gorgeous Mum, I loved Dolly, Pasty, Marilyn, Edie and I can’t leave out, Mary Poppins .  For as far back as I can recall, I genuinely believed that being just like them, a celebrity, would be a hop, skip and a jump (all things I thoroughly enjoyed, on a side note).  But, I figured it would be a one stop, shop type of audition.  A decision, a yes or a no and I was certain that I had what it would take.  I loved and thrived on creativity and being famous seemed like the closest thing to being an artist — something I sought out to be when I grew up.

Being the glue to my confidence, my Mum agreed to take me when I was in fifth grade to audition to be “famous”.  Never once putting down or deflating my fleeting dream, she knew that I wanted to entertain, express myself, and connect somehow artistically.  Turns out, I cannot act or sing and I did not become a star, as we all know.

Coincidently, the first time I ever lied was to my best friend, which happened to be  around the same time I asked my Mum to take me to Hollywood.  I had told my best gal, Crystal that I sounded just like Mariah Carey and gullibly she believed me.  It was only briefly, until one day we were in the parking lot of an Astro Van dealership, circa 1993 as her parents shopped for a new family vehicle.  Boldly she asked me to sing for her. I was stunned.  I hadn’t lied before and I didn’t know how to get out of it.  She saw right through me.

By the time fifth grade rolled around, my Mum kept her promise, enrolled me in acting lessons, reached out to agents, the whole kit and caboodle.  If I would have wanted her to be a stage mom, she would have gladly signed up for the job to support me in all forms of the spectrum. The thing was and still is, I’m only good at being myself.

I had been a ham since the day I was born and my life had been documented via camcorder, by the lovely and lively ladies in my life.  It was the 1980’s and quite the BIG deal to lug around a ridiculously large camera, but they did it regardless in an effort to capture my life.

Soon after my Mum’s persistence in trying to aid my flighty dream, I realized I am absolutely rubbish at being anything other than myself.  I couldn’t pretend.  I was unable to follow anyone else’s script outside of my very own.

All the while, creativity and imagination was never lost upon me.  I was just highly unaware at the time of how to channel it; how to open the pages of my fate in the creative realm.  If I were to take it back to those years, I’d say I always struggled being phoney.

As a young adult, sans/prior to the evil cancer taking residency in my insides, I came to terms with reality and realized I had to work in order to have an apartment and the things I lusted after.  My goals had shifted, my viewpoint was more mature and University and Corporate America seemed like my only option.

Strangely, in the seemingly thick of my career, unbeknownst to me that it would end in a few short  years, my Mum randomly said that she hoped that one day I would get compensated  for being one hundred percent, Britt; for being my true self, and sharing my creative mind with the world.  Of course I agreed and appreciated her love and wildly, amazing support, but I knew for a fact that a talent I was not.  I knew how to write, dress, decorate and apply makeup like a pro; but what did that all really mean in the real world? — nothing.  I still had to earn a paycheck if I wanted to dress well and I knew singing and/or acting was out of the question.  Feeling stuck was an understatement, but I didn’t see any other way of being an “artist” and was certainly not up for the “starving” bit.  I just wasn’t cut out for it and proceeded to work towards my career climbing the ladder, never looking back down until I hit a glass ceiling.

When I became sick and inevitably had to give up my career, I felt that I had lost a piece of who I was.  It was all I had known for the past ten years.  I was well groomed and manicured to continue moving on up.  The nine to five taught me savvy business lessons, yet oppositely managed to cripple my creativity, to no fault of the Company, but otherwise due to the type of industry, numbers were all that mattered.

Once I gave up that part of my life, I began to gain my creative power back and realized that even if you do have a regular 9 to 5, it doesn’t mean you should ever give up on YOURSELF, or what makes YOU happy and ultimately charges your soulful creativity.

Being sick, my mind often wanders off to far away places. Not necessarily Neverland, but rather memories from as early as I can recall.  I think back to the little girl who thought anything was possible, who fearlessly shared her creative self without any doubt or resistance towards caring what others opinions were.

Many may see cancer as a death sentence, but I see it as a destiny.  A journey.  A life that I may not have otherwise had the complete freedom to be who I am to my absolute core.

Nostalgia is a funny thing and history is just as important as the present, as  well as  whatever the future may hold.  Without gagging with cheesedom, the best thing you can do for yourself is to be your own muse, celebrate your own sense of self and celebrity (not literally), but I know you are picking up what I am laying down.  Stay true, be you, as everything unites and comes full circle in the end.

I’m not here to find fame, fortune or anything of the sort.  I’m here to be myself in hopes that I can inspire someone, perhaps expand my social ability to connect with people on deeper levels and tell my story along the way.

As I work on a project, a walk down memory lane has been an interesting one (not sure of the ETA — probably forever).  Finding out what makes me, me, brings great hope to share that with anyone that feels they want to experience the wonderful life I have lived and will continue to live on my journey as a cancer survivor and fighter, amongst other things I am blessed with.

It may not be blogging as often as I’d liked to, although that is my New Year’s resolution, but life. Am I right?  

Follow along on @bestillmyheartblog on Instagram and Be Still My Heart Blog on Facebook for everyday updates on my happenings.

PS-  BUT MY GOAL IS TO BLOG WAY MORE, BECAUSE DUH!

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Love forever and talk soon,

Britt x 

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The Butterfly Effect

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The Butterfly Effect, we all know the movie; but do we know the theories behind what it actually means? Aside from Ashton Kutcher, of course.  Recently I had been rationalizing with myself in the “if this, then that” variety and I had piloted myself into an atmosphere in which I could not seem to discharge.  If I had probed my family about our medical history, would I then have pardoned myself the identification of being a Stage IV cancer patient?  If I had regular checkups with my physician, as a responsible adult should, then would the cancer have been exposed in an early, more manageable stage?  The “if this, then that” state of affairs is somewhat complex.  We live in a world of if’s and but’s, however my personal, demanding interrogations reached a point of a rather pleading status.

Abundantly so, my self cross-examination left me in a transported state, night after night; questioning the preemptive paces that I could have taken to avoid the nightmare that is cancer.  The mount that I was tolerating became an unavoidable prudence, which donated the gift of sleepless nights.  As the sleep deprivation intensified, my illness-ridden body began to act out in a way that was something out of the Exorcist.  In the only way explainable, I felt as though my 27-year-old frame was befalling that of possession to something far outside of my realm.  Shaking and contorting in a disturbing manner, I woke my husband out of a snoring slumber and in a petrified shudder asked that he drive me to the hospital immediately.

As my husband drove hurriedly and heavy-eyed, he was able to get us to the hospital safe and sound.  When I approached the Emergency Room, I was quivering in dual correspondence to nervousness as to what had happened and what it could possibly be deemed as.  The front desk asked me in an unproblematic tone, “How can we help you?”.  How was I to answer that?  I thought about being frank and telling them that what seems to have happened was a demonic possession.  But in fear that, that would land me unswervingly in the Psych Ward, I opted to tell them that I have Stage IV cancer and seemed to be shaking in an uncontrollable, erratic manner.

Before I could say, “boo”, I was laying on my back with crews of Doctors and Nurses surrounding the 7.5” hospital bed.  Catechizing me with jarring questions such as, “Who is the President” and “What city/state are we in?” it became entirely unblemished that I had not been possessed in a diabolical way, but rather a serious health situation sort of way.  My body resembling that of a sticker label, I without warning had wires, which were clung to buttons, which were grasping to my body by way of oval shaped stickers.  The tiny ER room became even more undersized, as the Doctors and Nurses continued to pile into the room to detect the cause for my temporary distort.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I was able to get a glimpse of Steve as he was thrust against the wall, still failing to leave my side, per the usual.  I’ve never witnessed such alarm on a loved one’s face.  Unimaginably, I could not relate to what he must have been witnessing, even though it was happening to me.  It was almost as though I had escaped my body during this suffering time, piloting myself back into the atmosphere, but this time in pure ecstasy.  Now of course, I wonder if that is the spiritual and physical way that your body contracts such distressing deeds.

Deprived of privacy, the nurses thought they were engaging in a secluded conversation; however Steve and I both overheard the verdict as to what they believed to have been occurring.  “Stroke 1”, they conferred.  At this point I had come to and knew that this would not turn out to be a transient ER visit, but rather residing result in being admitted to the hospital, yet again.

Re-entering my home away from home, the series of tests were set to begin come dawn.  Failing to be officially told that my episode was a stroke, I clung to the hope that it was something much more minimal.  In fact, the few things on the table for discussion was the possibility of a stroke, seizure, blood clot(s) and worst of all, cancer spreading to my brain.  After awaking from a $20,000 nap, I felt like a brand new person.  The sedative that the ER had induced into my veins, allowed me to have much needed stagnation, which my body was rebelling against the night prior.

With a few days of tests and hospital food in my belly, it was finally determined that none of the prior mentioned infirmities were conclusive, but rather my condition was that of a psychological anxiety; sleep deprivation.  Relieved and pleased with the outcome, I was dismissed from the hospital under orders of rest.

You would think rest would be a derivative of my current condition and still recovering state due to my surgeries just one short month ago.  But each night prior to this peculiar event, I sequestered answers to the butterfly effect; that if I had inserted small efforts into my life prior to my present situation, would the hypothetical influences have had a difference in the larger outcome?  The chaos theory.  It’s just that, chaotic.  Without a reasonable doubt, I could not, cannot, alternate the outcome of what was supposed to be.  I am a cancer patient and through this I am inescapably meant to come out on the other end with peace and utter insight as to how I want to live my life.

So now, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep because of my so-called “psychological anxieties”, I think of butterflies.  Butterflies represent change and transformation; symbolizing a new life from an old one.  Similarly, this experience is much like the life of a butterfly, it will transform me, to allow me to build a rejuvenated life after this period of metamorphosis.

Love,

Britt x