girl, unchained

This is not a blog about how things are going to change. I'm not going to go all, "Lookout, world," on your ass, because lately, I can't get out of my own way. My life is very average right now. I am happy. Not satisfied, but happy. I'm using this average time wisely. I'm learning how to be me when things aren't so great. I'm learning what I'll do when I have a blank canvas and very limited resources. I'm learning how to be a better person for me, and I'm learning how to be a better girlfriend for someone else. I'm learning how to be a better friend, in that I'm actually making friends occasionally. My phone's not ringing off the hook, but the friends I make have my back when I need it. That's all I'm saying. That's all except, thank goodness for them.

How do you lift yourself up, when there are so many reasons to be down? The beginning of this sentence is hopeful; the end, pessimistic. The thought that formed the sentence, and others like it, are the inner conflict that makes every day a struggle. For me. For a lot of people, some of whom I've met and known. Sometimes I'm sad for us. Sad that it's so difficult to stay afloat. That every obstacle hurts, and that having conquered them, we are scarred.

So now what? What happens after the disappointment, then the pain, and then the healing? The healing which I might add, is likely to take place for a good, long time. Do I stop doing the thing that I happened to be doing before I hit the wall? The thing that can cause me or anyone no harm at all, in fact, just the opposite? I like to play music. I almost love it, which might not seem like enough, but under the circumstances really works for me right now. And can finding the music in you ever be bad?

So music and I are meeting again, as I think we should. Just as I had mostly stopped playing, I had mostly stopped writing. Writing has always been my true love, but for whatever reason the fates crafted, the music came back first. For a lot of other reasons, some fateful and some self-designed, I couldn't write. Now, two years later, I'm still holding my tongue waiting for the right time to pick it back up. I was afraid. Afraid to write something that conjured hurt, even without intent. I was trying not to tread on anyone's healing process while trying to start mine. I was trying not to remind anyone that I'm here. I guess it's been hard to decide whether to keep on flying below the radar, or to finally start talking about how I feel. And I thought the latter would only fuel the terrible hate that I thought I'd overcome after high school. I thought wrong. The hate will always be lurking, if even in remote shadows. I guess the thing to do is fill the negative space with love, and hope that it crowds out the rest.

Having a teenage nephew (and being Facebook friended to him) reminded me that bullying is a nasty shape-shifter and comes in many forms. Exclusion, passive aggressive comments with an unnamed subject (doesn't matter who it is, because it's the people who already feel terrible about themselves who'll take it to heart), silence, and of course the ever popular plain old name calling. It's all out there, more than ever, no matter the age group.

This, and having had for a long time a job in insurance, where the customer is always right, and having said customers exhibit without remorse all of those behaviors made me question humanity. Having friends kill themselves over even very little experience with the above made me question whether we (I) can hack this mean old life. Hearing from my hairdresser and even relatives the things my best friend from high school now says in reference to our seemingly dead friendship made me question whether I have what it takes to even maintain the most shallow of friendships.

All that said, I can't see the function of chaining myself to one of very few terrible mistakes I've made, and in doing so, deny myself the freedom to be the best possible version of me. Isn't that all we can really aim for? I mean, I tried so hard not to end that last sentence with a preposition, but man alive, I'm not a perfect person. I am flawed, now medicated, still anxious, and by some miracle, still kicking. To quote my grandfather on his death bed, "I did the best I could." Now I'm gonna do it some more. 

Of all the things I feel sorry about, making loving, good people feel hate is top on the list. Yet, if me, writing about my struggle to feel good, to be good makes someone feel hate, then I guess there's nothing I can do. 

Yours truly,
Weena, Four-eyes, Ugly, Mekka-neck, Copy Cat, Sybil, and the ever confusing to all of us, Iguana.