This blog has sucked for a while. I think that is because, like all things in my life right now, it is about me finding the perfect mix of vulnerability.
Life can be like fiction, can have themes. And right now this is a major theme that I’m just starting to see.
This writing is shit with out some vulnerability. But the more people I know who read it, the more I pull back. Take caution with the pices that I used to thrust up here so willingly.
And I’m sorry. But it’s not just you.
With schools I’m searching for the right mix of vulnerability. Do I hope for Grad School and then tell you all, and my family and my coworkers that I am going to be a waitress again. Could I let you see that I hurt? Could I let you feel my future devastation that my life will amount to nothing?
Or if the worst is going to happen, do I choose to hope, even foolishly? Do I choose to spend my spare time with thoughts of joy? The idea of an acceptance letter brings tears to my eyes, and I can’t bear for that to never come to fruition.
But I’ve been through worse disappointments. And this is new ground too. The thought and fear and hope that I can change, that my life can be more, that I may deserve more than this etched out existence of mediocrity.
I miss a connection with another person. And I find myself reaching out and pulling back and reaching out and pulling back. I can’t find the balance of vulnerability necessary to even find my footing. How does one do that? How does one let someone else in enough to see the struggle? To see the process? It’s not so far in, but it is farther than anyone has come in a long time.
And for what? Another dead end likely. But I’ve never been one to stop myself from having fun because it won’t end well.
No I destroy it instead. I use my insecurity to tell myself I don’t deserve it and that they are lying anyhow.
And with each tiny step forward I take I pull back from other people.
Only so much skin can be exposed.
Only so much me can be shown at any given time.
Too much vulnerability and then what?
What happens if people see?
That I don’t know what I’m doing. That I’m afraid. That I don’t know who I am.
So, it’s that time of year again. It passes so quickly anymore, it’s hard to keep track. But I think I use this post now to sort of give a personal State of the Union Address.
The state is weird.
My life seems utterly strange to me. Each event, each action, seems completely surreal as if I still can’t quite fathom how this whole thing life thing is happening. I hope I’ll adjust, but I doubt I ever will.
This year has thrown me for a massive loop. I am back home, main caretaker for a parent. I am graduating in May with a degree I’ve been working for for over 9 years. I know I won’t be living here this time next year, so nothing feels permanent. I am still waiting for my real life to begin.
My job sucks. I’m broke like everyone else in the country. My family is insane. My stress levels are through the roof. I put on 10 pounds this year. And I’m worn thin.
But somehow, I’m content.
Is it the meds? Maybe.
Is it seeing my friends more? Possibly.
New beau? Could be.
I don’t know. I tend to think it’s the past couple years of steady therapy mixed with everything else above. I tend to think it’s getting published again, and maybe even getting paid for it. I tend to think it has something to do with becoming the woman I so desperately wanted to be.
There are times in my life where I would look at myself and think the 14 year old me would call me a sell-out and sucker punch me.
I think she and I have made our peace, and I’ve maintained a lot of her attributes and incorporated them into this extended adolescence.
I think we’ve reached compromises.
She doesn’t mind that I wear a lot of Banana Republic because I basically only wear black and gray.
I don’t mind that she’s emotionally needy from anyone who shows her kindness, because I have plenty of friends to bear the burden of kindness.
We split the music. 50% depressing, 50% less depressing. We both like Amanda Palmer.
I’m evolving. Perceptibly evolving. And though I still hate myself more than is healthy, I have a funny feeling that one day I won’t.
I think this year I learned it’s okay to like myself.
Study Break.
The other day on the bus I drifted off and dreamt that Vladamir Putin turned into a Tiger and ate the world.
Last night I dreamt that I was fighting a massive fair-featured God, whose dominion was over beer and bread. He was my ex-husband in the dream, and I prevailed.
Both dreams made me think of Ragnarök. Both dreams made me smile.
Excuses ~ Aug 5, 08:58 PM
Things I Did Instead of Writing a Blog Post
- Worked, or tried to at least
- Went to therapy, showed genuine emotion
- Saw the guys, made plans to see them again
- Mini catch up call with sister
- Got checked out by a guy whose friends disagreed with his opinion
- Bought over-priced food at gourmet shop
- Fantasized about becoming non-hallucinogenic-driven Hunter S Thompson
- Drank Turkish sour cherry juice. Oh yeah.
- Watched latest Mad Men episode
- Subsequently spent too long thinking about Mr. Draper. Oh yeah.
- Contemplated my navel
- Dozed off while typing this list
- Decided to try again tomorrow
Look, maybe you were born a man, if so I’m sorry for what is to follow. Actually I’m not sorry. You see one of the reason I get the distinct impression that you might have started life out on the skins team is because of the way you walk.
Every day I walk past you. You have a more masculine fac, but you have this gorgeous Tori Red hair, and a sinewed shape of lean muscle. You wear such smart little outfits, and you would be adorable, but then I get to your head and you are hunched down as if you’d like nothing more for the moon to crash into the earth and that moment and dissolve you into a crater.
First get a big pair of Jackie O. sunglasses for your face shape, and second, fake it until you make it. You might be awkward now, but no one needs to know that. You are divine and I appreciate your desire to find your true self. Don’t show anyone you are insecure.
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