'Losing yourself happens one no at a time,'

...writes Shonda Rhimes, my nomination for Oprah once Oprah retires.

9/9, EARLY

Snake slide!

It sounds like a war cannon. The dogs burrow into me. It’s La Virgin de Loreto’s celebration day. I’d read there were going to be fireworks at 5am. (Thank God it’s 6am. I guess even saint celebrations happen on languid Mexico time.)

These fireworks aren’t the fun ones. It’s a flash of light with a BOOM. It’s not like there is an awe inspiring show to make up for the noise. It’s just BOOOM!!

The dogs and I watch TV for a while. Schnauzer Mom Lynn said CNN soothes them in the face of fireworks or thunder. I can’t stand the news for longer than 10 minutes so we flip until we get to Mariachi music videos. Lotsa machismo and lotsa cheating.

Cuddling and caring for the dogs takes my mind of myself. My anxiety is 1000% self centered. I’m not saying I enjoyed cannon sounds every couple minutes from 6 to 7am, but I’m grateful for them. 

This morning there is a Temezcal (a sweat lodge) for the new moon scheduled at the botanical garden. I’m looking forward to it, convinced it’ll Purge any lingering Stuff.

Is this cool or what? They're rattlesnakes.

I decide to walk the mile and a half to the gardens, but halfway up - up because it is steeeeeeeeep - I make a wrong turn and a taxi appears. I don’t think, I just wave. I’m so tired, I don’t have time to be too scared to talk to a stranger. 

9am

The Temezcal is cancelled because not enough people reserved ahead of time. I’m not a disappointed as I thought I’d be. The view and vibe of El Charco del Ingenio Jardín Botánico has me psyched to just hike the grounds.

It’s early enough to walk the natural reserve in relative silence. I see a group on the trail before me and go the opposite way. The walking trails are a loop(ish), so I’ve just bought myself some nice alone time. In quick succession, I find the Pollinator Garden, I see a blue butterfly the size of my outspread hand(!!!!), and I slide down a rattlesnake slide :) This place is healing AF. (Note for Grandma H, “AF” = “as all get out”)

South (water) from the Sun?Moon center

I wander onto the Four Winds Plaza, a vast ritual space honoring the 1991 solar eclipse. I’ve seen The Craft, so I know I’ve wandered onto sacred ground. Different colored rocks make the pattern of the moon and sun and the four points with their corresponding natural resources. (FYI, North is earth, South is water, East is Flora, West is Fauna. I didn’t know any of this and was thrilled to learn. PS The Craft doesn't use the same corners :/ ) 

I meditate in the middle of the moon and sun. I journal. I cry, of course. When people show up, I fight the urge to collect my stuff and not be That Lady. After two seconds the urge fades. I’m not ready to leave yet. I don’t care that I’m That Lady. This feels good. I’m gonna do it as long as I need.

The rest of the nature walk is lovely. There is a random swing in the middle of a path that I play on for a minute, lest I break it. It’s clear this rope-on-branch swing was made for smaller people 100 lbs lighter than me. There is a kickass biome housing, among other things, some rare and endangered species of plants native to Mexico.

Native dancers

On my way home, I hear a parade. Something I’ve discovered in Mexico: when you hear a parade, you go toward the parade. I abandon my route home and witness the most random collection of groups honoring the Virgin. First a military type brass band, followed by native dancers performing to drum beats (my FAVORITE), followed by people dressed in horrifying Halloween costumes dancing to loud techno. 

I do some research, and the scary people are called Locos (crazies). They have their own parade and celebration that started when San Miguel was mostly orchards. (I’m massively truncating this story.) The dancing was an offering to the saints and farmers started dressing in costume to scare away curious people and let the offering of dance take place in peace. In time, the scary costume and dance merged and the Locos got organized into their own parade and day of celebration in the Spring.

Locos!

I spend the rest of the day listening to Shonda Rhimes' “Year of Yes” and trying to make the half raw chicken I poorly cooked into something. (Chicken & broccoli. It’s not great.) 

Whereas the first half of Shonda Rhimes’ book made me feel terrible; (I started it before the Purge, so let’s assume Shonda Rhimes was the straw that broke my Saturday) post-Purge, I’m getting the

Being That Lady

message. Now, I love the book. I love Shonda. Part of me considers watching the first 10 (11?) seasons of Gray’s Anatomy so I can have Christina Yang as a best friend, too. Maybe next time I have the flu. 

9/10, 7am

I do yoga. I don’t cry, but I don’t feel well. I’m exhausted. I’m craving structure. I realize I haven’t had a solid routine since late July before all the fun and craziness of visitors and travel took over my life. 

I change my flight. Originally, my plan was to leave in 10 days. Now, I’m leaving on Friday. For a hot 48 hours or so, I’d talked myself into going to Mexico City for Diez y Seis de Septiembre, because Independence Day, wooo!! I’ve been told it’s an insane party! I’m here anyway, aren’t I?!

I’m wary in a crowd on a good day. The thought of scuttling through a citywide party trying not to get raped or vomited on (I’m terrified of rape & vomit in the US, too. More so, to be honest.) makes me want to hide. So I’m coming home. 

I was raised with the belief that plans are PLANS. When I was an assistant and my boss

Swing 'em if ya got 'em!

would have me change his flights, I would ask the travel agent to do this like I was asking for a personal loan. Canceling my Mexico City Air BnB and changing my flight feels revolutionary.

I’m all over the place about my decision to leave early. I’m sad that I feel too fragile to stay. I’m glad I’m taking care of myself. I feel guilty that I can’t make use of such a great opportunity (“There are starving children in America, Bianca!” has been my mental reprimand since I got here.) I’m proud I’m making my health a priority.  

My whole life I've muscled through jobs, relationships, even nights out despite how my body reacted. This feels cheesy to say, but whatever: This time I'm saying YES to my health and my needs. Thank you, Shonda. I forgive you for ruining my vacation.  

BioDome!!

View from the eclipse

My favorite cactus looks like BRAAAINS! ("Cerebro" = brains)

"Omigawd!"

...said Pancho the Parrot and made me laugh til I cried.

Pancho's effect on me

745a

I sleep in! I yoga without crying again. I’m concerned. Where’s the release? Did I just spend 75 minutes doing surface yoga??

3p

I write in the library. I take more pictures of murals. (scroll to the bottom for these) On my way home, I can’t help stopping by Jardín Rama again. I love this place. As I wait for my tacos I hear a scratchy “Hola!!” from the garage behind the restaurant. That’s how I meet Pancho the Parrot. 

He’s gorgeous. Just my type. Loud and obnoxious from afar, but when you get to know him better you discover he’s shy and sweet. He put on quite a show, trying to mate with me. Every time he says “Hola!”, I laugh and cry at the same time, like I do when Stella (dog, not bestie) shows me her toothy grin. Animals, y’all. They’re so much better than people.

When I get home Martha asks me about my weekend plans. Home is the main plan. She asks me about friends or going out…? Nah, I like home. She suggests El Jardín Principal (the main garden, the city's social center) because Friday nights there’s all kind of revelry, mariachis, huge dancing monos (dolls)…

Sunset fm El Jardín

I haven’t been out later than 8p the whole time I’ve been here. I should see what Martha’s talking about, right? Huge dancing dolls? Sounds terrifying and spectacular!

645p

El Jardín is packed with people. I soak up the scene. It’s a beautiful sunset. I sit down on a low wall and people watch. I write, because I don’t know what else to do with myself.

There are kindergarteners with begging cups. They approach the couple next to me. I don’t have any money to give them, and I don't want to tell 6 year olds, “No.” There’s a chicken I need to cook at home. Altogether, I last about fifteen minutes out in El Jardín.

On my way home, I get caught up in a wedding parade featuring mariachis and HUGE, DANCING DOLLS. I weave in and out of a crowd of beautiful people. This is a much better party than El Jardín. Once the parade arrives to the park, I watch the bride and groom dance, flanked by huge dolls that have stopped their dancing to make way for the real stars of the show. 

Felicidades!

1a

I finally get to bed after trying an atrocious roasted chicken recipe that I undercook because I’m too tired to put it back in the oven. Seriously. 

9/8, 830a

ZUMBAAA! 

Last Saturday morning, while I was walking the dogs, I heard a party. That party was ZUMBA in the park. I vowed, HELL YES, I’ll be there next Saturday.

It's a large crowd, equal parts Mexican and Anglo, a huge age range. The instructor (Cesar Espinosa Camarillo!) is fantastic: sexy dancer, great personality and impeccable rhythm. BONUS: he uses hand signals to teach. (I could never ever master teaching dance fitness with hand signals, and always envied the badass teachers that could.) His signaling is so precise, my body understands them before my brain does and I move without having to think which is AMAZING. The class is FUN and I highly recommend it, should you find yourself in SMA on a Saturday morning. 

Cesar bombs my Instastory

The class kicks my ass. I’m in excellent shape, and I’m exhausted. I want to go straight back to bed after, except I have breakfast plans with Melissa. 

After breakfast (tamale plate at the market, EXCELLENT), I’m still exhausted and not feeling great. I’m hyper sensitive to every sound and smell. I keep imagining the undercooked chicken I tasted last night and wait for the food poisoning to erupt.

I arrive home and go straight to sleep. After a few hours of bed, and zero gross signs of food poisoning besides no appetite, I find a yoga class online that is supposed to rejuvenate me. (I’m rolling my eyes at MYSELF, so you don’t have to.) I feel better I guess, but I don't know what to do. I feel like I have tons of stuff to take care of, but I stand in the kitchen and stare at the dog food.

~Trigger alert: If you suffer from anxiety, this is about anxiety~

I wasn’t sure how or if I should address the rest of my afternoon/evening, but why not? I could pretend travel is the answer to everything and my life is all tacos and tequila, or I could tell the truth.

Tamale breakfast plate

The truth is, I don’t feel well because of my head not my gut. I’ve been distracting myself from facing Stuff because Stuff scares me. I'm calling it Stuff because I don't exactly know a better word that isn't loaded with judgmental BS like "issues" or "my Shadow Self".  My Stuff comes to the surface a few times a year. Sometimes it’s activated by a specific failure or trauma, sometimes I walk into it like a cloud of summer flies.

This Stuff is summer flies. I’m rave-texting a friend about the benefits of facing your deep down, dark, awful Junk when I feel a wash of anxiety so alarming, it’s like my skin is being peeled from my body. 

I try to convince myself: No. I’m talking about their Junk, not my Stuff. My Stuff is great, I’m in Mexico for crying out loud, I’m GIVING advice, I don’t need to feel this… I take the dogs for a walk to escape the sudden claustrophobia of this giant house. The air against my skin feels like ice and sand. Outside feels terrifying.

My panic is familiar, but it doesn’t make it less scary. I realize if I don’t allow myself to Purge now, the next time Stuff hits me I may not be alone, and I’ll make a fool out of myself and then what will people think?

Pretty proud of my quesadilla flatbread

So that’s my Saturday night. I Purge Stuff for a couple hours and come out the other side with swollen eyes and pages of journal scribble mental vomit, exhausted. It wasn’t the chicken, it turns out. I don't feel great, but feel better than I did. I can even eat a little dinner.

As I write this, I feel exposed. I don’t have to address my anxiety, but then I’d be lying to you and, by extension, myself. When I write, I write truth. It’s easy for me to speak lies, but it’s next to impossible for me to write them.

Maybe that’s why I don’t talk to my closest loves about my anxiety episode, even though I speak with or text all of them within 24 hours of the Purge. I’m afraid they’ll worry or want to fix me. I don’t want any of that. I just want to be honest. I’ve been told I come off as hyper capable and in control. I am both, and sometimes I’m also an anxious mess of doubt, shame, unworthiness, etc. 

One last thought before I end this torture: This story doesn’t feel good enough. It was just anxiety, I’m not Sybil or anything. 

(You notice I say I had an "anxiety episode"? That's because anxiety attacks go to the hospital. People think they're having a heart attack; I never thought it was a heart attack, so I can control my own narrative. 

Note: this is hiding because of stigma and shame. Honestly, I don't know what it was, I just know I needed to stop ignoring it before it took me down.)  

My fierce friend, Jordyn (@jordynrwagner on IG), is a passionate advocate for mental health awareness. When she shares about her journey, I feel less alone. Even though my story isn’t as dramatic as my ego would like it to be to earn a spot on my sacred blog, I’m making myself share it. Maybe if you find yourself feeling really shitty on the inside even though you look like you’ve got it all handled on the outside, you’ll feel less alone, too.

Some of Pancho's pick-up-artist moves

"Roadkill" by Himed&Reiben is my #1 favorite of all the murals I've seen. PS, it was painted using stencil

This is my #2 favorite, by Vivograff (@vivograff on Instagram)

This one is gigantic. Probably the length of 7-ish parking spaces.

"Water Coyote"by Meikwon (@meikwon on Instagram)

by Magda Love (find more at #madgalove on Instagram)

UUuuuugh, I didn't take notes and don't see the signature. 

I think the tag says MeRle

Mosaic is the next frontier for the Arts District. Colleen's handiwork is around the Virgin

"This is a family restaurant. We can't have nipples in view..."

The view from the Rosewood
rooftop will bug your eyes

...said a restaurant to Colleen Sorenson, the founder of Muros en Blanco (White Walls), regarding nipples on a mural in view from their front windows. She objected back because art is full of nipples and so is the world, but the artist accommodated the restaurant by pixelating them.

9/7, 645a I wake up. I do yin yoga and I DON’T CRY. I think I’m still warm and fuzzy from my perfect night last night, but still I highly recommend doing a yin class. Yin is to regular yoga, what drinking water is to your diet. Not terribly sexy, not exciting but necessary for your health and a great detox.

10a I’m the only person at Via Organica for the Street Art tour. I meet Colleen Sorenson and get a private tour for the price of a normal tour. Since it’s just me, I opt to drive with Colleen instead of walk the neighborhood so I can see more. 

Yes, of course I thought of Stella (my bff, not the dog). I have a WhatWouldStellaDo moment every time I’m about to do something that has the potential to be the least bit dangerous, and it’s made me a more responsible Bianca. (My favorite WWSD moment was in New Orleans at 3am wearing a tiny dress and walking from Bourbon Street to the French Quarter to save money. I walked two blocks, realized Stella WOULD

Pixellated nipped, or I WONDER WHAT THOSE PIXLES ARE HIDING?

NEVER DO THIS and hailed a cab.) However, Colleen is a retired expat, and more importantly has a very good reputation online. I get in her Jeep without another thought.

She drives me to an overgrown, dry riverbed… 

(I wish I was mean enough to write a gory story of how she bound me with the strap from her handcrafted Mexican purse and tortured me with the glass from her bifocals (she doesn’t even wear glasses). I wish I could describe how her artists showed up and, at first I thought they were going to intervene and save me, but instead they used my bloodspray to accent their mural, a tortureporn representation of the birth of feminism named simply, “Lloras (You cry)”. However, this is a human being with a passion for art, doing good in the world. She doesn't deserve libel. So she drives me to an overgrown, dry riverbed...)

Art from across the riverbed - this had something to do with Alice in Wonderland & the White Rabbit
(I should've taken notes)

...and shows me incredible murals. Guadalupe has become the Arts District chiefly because of Colleen’s passion in spearheading making street art legal, because before 2013 anyone

The people call this Evil Eye. I don't see it.

could be arrested for painting art on walls, even with the owners blessing, even if the owner was standing next to the artist, defending them to the police. 

The mural project, now named Muros en Blanco, has helped elevate the Guadalupe neighborhood - remember when I comparing it to East 6th in Austin? - from a rundown hood with spray-painted tags on the buildings to an up and coming area with an influx of money from young Mexicans who’ve returned from Mexico City to open new restaurants and stores in the area. 

If anyone is looking for a good documentary subject, Colleen & Graffiti World would be a

By Jace, who named this something beautiful, but all I can
remember is the people call her Blue Girl. Thrilling.

great one. It’s the odd coupling of a 60’s woman who shuns cell phones helping organize a community of young artists in their teens and 20s in San Miguel and den mothering graffiti festivals that attract artists from all over the world. You’re welcome. 

Colleen’s passion for Muros en Blanco and providing for her artists is what spurred the Street Art Tour that she does six times a week. All proceeds from the tours goes for paint for the artists and to support the community. Needless to say, I highly recommend it and I can’t wait to come back to see how the walls of San Miguel evolve. (Lots more pics when you scroll down.)

Writing partners

645p  

I’m writing when I realize the time and weather- it’s near sunset and it’s not raining!

I haul ass to the Rosewood Hotel Luna Rooftop to have the expensive drink I poo-poo’d yesterday. The view is better than I could have imagined. 

When you walk in San Miguel, the sidewalks are 2-3ish feet wide (thin!) and put you right next to the building walls. Streets are also thin and all the homes & shops are connected, so you walk around very much in the midst of clustered building snakes. Obviously, San Miguel is dripping with beauty with its bougainvillea, cobblestone streets, neogothic church and epic gardens, but this new bird’s eye perspective really stuns me. 

The churros and mezcal are hella nice, too. 

Sunset behind the clouds

A little later, even prettier

"Love Never Dies" - of course, I remember this one's name

I can see where the artist signed, but I can't read it. I love how the plumage bleeds out of the wall.

"Dia de los Muertos" from society to individual to skin to cells

This was something about a dream stealer. All I know is I wasn't terribly interested in it until Colleen explained the girl and the monster. Now I LOVE it.

Colleen says when the plants are in bloom, her "hair" goes wild!

More riverbed art- This is on the wall that surrounds Guadalupe. I liked the Yin Yang Armadillos

The piece on the left is about having to clone yourself to handle life, but then how empty that is (I'm working off my atrocious memory for that one, but it's in the ball park.), and the piece on the right is to cover kids ruining an artist's piece because he fell out of favor with them.

Finally, Stella showed me a face she'd never made before and it makes me laugh so hard, I instantly weep. Those teeth!

"Pinche pendeja..."

Would you believe me if I said
I'm getting tired of margaritas? 

...mutters the steward as he passes me after dealing with the Most Annoying Drunk White Woman Ever. “Lo siento!” ("I'm sorry!") he calls out realizing I heard him. I throw him a thumbs up, “‘sta bueno!” because I. Agree. 

515a 

I wake up. 

615a 

I get off my phone. I really have to get on that whole phone, news detox thing. I start my morning: Yoga, crying, you know the drill. 

10a 

I arrive at Via Organica for the wall art walking tour that I researched last night online. When no one shows up I try my luck with my internet. It meets tomorrow. WHY don’t I take notes when I research??

I wander even though I’m wearing new shoes. I stumble upon some really cool murals on my own and earn my toes some bloody blisters. You know what else receipts are good for? Yeah, y’all. Never throw your receipts away, they could be the thing that gets you home. 

Usche, she's so hot right now

I get home with MORE groceries for my soup - this better be the best recipe I’ve ever made - and chill with the ladies. 

Lest you think I hate Usche and Stella because I panic when they bark, and they’ve been on a roll lately, let me tell you about my favorite times of day:

~mornings~ We have our quiet time in the yard or in the garden, and they’re so happy to see a new day that they prance, especially little Stella. 

~afternoons~ They make little sleep grunts as I write that kill me. 

~nights~ They comfort me. While I research in bed, they let me slip my feet under their little bodies under the covers and it’s calming like a thunder-shirt. 

Stella's smile

I run out for a late lunch and get a wild hair for a margarita. I hit nearby Hotel Sautto because I saw a marg recommendation online. The hotel garden is beautiful and the margarita is strong. Because I’m by myself, I can’t help eavesdropping on the only other people here, a drunk threesome. 

I learned to hate drunk people in college when I worked my way through UT as a bartender on 6th Street. I barely tolerate my drunk friends, I hate drunk strangers (myself included), and there is a special place on my Shit List for drunk foreigners who boss staff around. These are those people. 

I actively try to have empathy here, because I know I’m judgmental. I consider thoughts like “They probably are just bad drunks,” and “Everyone has

I bought chicken here. I had to wait for the
lady to leave before I took a picture bc she
was scary and wielded a mean cleaver.

a story, Bianca, and you don’t know theirs,” even as I can feel my lips curl in disdain. Then, they start fighting loudly over how much to tip, and it’s two plastered cheapskates against one slurring woman who keeps trying to explain why they should tip more than 3-5%. I’m so grossed out. 

When Carlos/Eduardo (I’m not even sure either of these names are correct, but the main asshole woman keeps hollering both for the steward across the garden in that particularly disgusting way some people have of learning their server’s name just so they can personally order them around) curses the drunk witch as he passes me, I crack up. Good for him, I hope he spit in her drinks.

The weather calls for thunderstorms for the foreseeable future so if I’m going to take advantage of the nearby rooftop bar for a sunset drink, I know I’ve got to squeeze it in today. And yet... 

I take my time writing. I FaceTime with my girl, Maddie B (if you need a good therapist, see Madison Besser. She’s been counseling me since she was 9 years old.) I FINALLY cook my soup. (Labor intensive but excellent.) I drink wine and dance along to Mamma Mia and then swoon along to To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. (I couldn’t have asked for a better double feature! Both movies get better every time I watch them! Squee!) 

Despite all the cool things I get to do, all of the above is close as I can get to a perfect night.

Urban mural in the arts district 

I'm such a sucker for a Virgin (I know! It's a TERRIBLE joke.

When I eat by myself, I have to play games like Taste Test to keep from getting on my phone...

Taste test - #2 won

Taste test - Green won