except for nothing.

Another day of sick, and I'm ready to jump out the window. Fourth of July didn't happen with a bang, but every day can't be the best day. I feel like I want to melt into the abyss of my couch as Love It or List It pokes and prods my brain in the background pulling me in and out of a reality best suited for people much stronger than me. Virus=1. Me=negative 3. I am pooped. 

Tired of the psychological effects of people having ripped scabs off of cuts that should have healed, but clearly hadn't. One more, and they may find that they've sabotaged the only possible shiny piece of metal to come out of the wreck. Is that the intent? Probably not. At least not a conscious intention. Know thyself. Know that when you look into the magic mirror it may say you're the fairest, but in the end the outside isn't what keeps your heart full of joy. That said, throwing poisonous apples at the problem certainly won't fix it.

I dreamed of a pack of wolves this weekend. They chased us and hounded us. They killed geese, which also chased us. By all accounts, this means I need to be self-sufficient, and not indulge my thoughts when they begin to consume me. Some things are indeed beyond my control. That leaves me to accept the rain, accept the thunder, and accept that the grass will grow without me. That reminds me of something I learned a long time ago, and then went ahead and forgot. Don't plant weeds where you want a flower to grow. 

I realized one big difference between me and a bitter soul. I do things because I want to share my love. I want to share my insides with anyone who'll have the guts to look at them. To accept them. Performing, creating, making beautiful things can only become me if I put the best of me in the forefront. I just don't feel like things can be beautiful for any other reason. And then...the pressure was off. 

"Now began the part of her life where she was just very beautiful, except for nothing. Only winners will know what this feels like. Have you ever wanted something very badly and then gotten it? Then you know that winning is many things, but it is never the thing you thought it would be.”
― Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You

yellow blankie.

When I was just a little girl in Louisiana, my mom's friend came by in her pick up truck to take us out for a little while. I have no idea where we were going, but like most little girls, I wanted to bring my most beloved thing with me. I hurled my yellow blankie with the satin edges I used to rub under my nose up over the bed of the truck. I had no idea that this decision would lead to a world of hurt. When my mom retrieved it, it was covered in motor oil. Ruined.

Sometimes our own insecurities get the best of us. Sometimes when you take the things that make you feel secure along for the ride, you single-handedly ruin the thing you needed the most. And then you grow. You realize maybe you didn't need it as much as you thought you did. In the end, you say leaving that behind is best. Primarily because you have to.

I'm not insecure about my ability to write. To think. To observe. My writing is a place where I go to take all of these observations and turn them into something beautiful and sometimes heartbreaking. Other times it's funny and cheap. But no matter which thing it is, I'm confident I'm doing it well. During a recent writing course I took, my peer reviewers seemed to genuinely enjoy the stories, and pointed out things I could do better. They are not writers, they said, but it didn't matter. They were my audience, and if they couldn't grasp something, I knew I needed to so something to make it clearer. I don't write for others, but I do write to connect with people. If something is keeping them from accessing my "art" then I'm damn well going to hear them and try my best to make it better. What I don't want to do is put myself above them and say that because they are not writers the same as me, that their observations are invalid. It is counterproductive for me, and condescending and insensitive to them. As I reviewed their work, I pointed out what I felt was good or came through the best, and suggested mostly that they write the way the speak. One of them quoted me in their final essay, and said that it was the most valuable thing they received from their peer reviewers.

I may not be enlightened, but I am lighter today than I've felt recently. To say that my observations are not valid because I am not as good as, as productive as, as creative as my peers is to say that one has nothing left to learn.

I was confident in my ability to write before I took my introductory writing course. I mean, I've already been a paid writer. My experience must speak to something. I tried twice to test out of it, and missed it by a very small margin. I could have tried a third time, but instead said to myself, "I can always learn something." I stayed in a class full of people who claimed not to be writers. Who had never written before. Some of whom will probably try to avoid it at all costs. And in the end, I learned as much from them as I did from the instructor and any professional writers I've ever read. I am no better or worse than them. Just different.

I'm o.k. with that. With all of this. Some of us will part ways, and some of us will see each other in Writing II. I'm looking forward to reading what every last one of my classmates has to say, regardless of their background. I can't wait to see what I learn.

= love.

A  Short Story About Important Things I've Learned

I've never claimed to be a saint. What I can claim today is that I'm not a liar. I don't take things out of context (copy and paste is a great tool) and swirl them around to suit my insecurities, and I can't force myself to fit into a very tiny box when I'm working on something creative. If my ideas have to fit into a set of someone else's narrow parameters, I can't operate. If feel cornered. I feel undervalued. 

I refuse to undermine my ideas or my talents, and I don't intend to allow anyone else do it for me. I think everyone can understand that from the giving and receiving end. This is not a meaningful or productive way to bring something from idea to reality. The fact that I learned this is more positive to me than the fact that I didn't know it is negative.

Am I rash sometimes? Of course. But I've seen enough of that to know that this isn't a permanent fault, but a temporary set back. Either way, at the end of the day when I find myself saying, "Why doesn't anyone love me?" what I'm really saying is, "Why don't I love myself enough to let them dislike me?"

I can change whenever I want; when it suits me, and especially if it's a change for the better. I don't have to wait for someone to tell me to do it, and I don't have to do what anyone else would expect from me. I've hurt some feelings, yes. I've even had a petty moment or two when prodded. Repeatedly.

Still, I haven't killed anyone's baby.

Considering the circumstances I--and a bunch of other people--have endured this week, you'd never know it. I don't say, "I've never been so hurt in my life." Primarily because I have, over and over again. Loss and losing are part of life. So I called the game. I finished it, at least in my mind. I don't have time to work on things that can't be worked. Not because they are bad, but because they are tired. 

When I met Jeremy, we immediately bonded over a song. No, we didn't fall in love right away. For me, it took time because of many of the things I mentioned--my own insecurity, having carried hurt with me for too long, and not loving myself enough to be loved. But he fought for me because he saw something in me that no one else does. He waited and he was kind. He was the reason and the moment and everything I needed to pull me out of a black hole. 

I told him exactly who I was, no filter. And he said to me about the bad parts, "Well, you're not doing that now." And he promised to stay, no matter what anyone said about me. I gave him a fair shot to get out, which speaks volumes to the amount of self-loathing I was feeling at the time. 

Four years and some change later, these are his words upon being told he should really be "allowed" to continue playing with a band that doesn't want to overlook my perceived fatal flaws anymore:

"I pictured myself, standing there on the stage ending a great solo. We would end the song and people would be cheering and I'd look up...and you wouldn't be there. You'd be sitting home, and I wouldn't be able to share it with you. I would want to share it with you."

This is not a manipulated and "whipped" man. This is true love. He needs me to stand behind him doing something 1. he loves and 2. that delivered to us each other. I will always do that for him (also love). To suggest otherwise for selfish gains is foolish.

I write this because...well, how could I take a wonderful person like this for granted? Answer: I can't, and never do. If I catch myself falling into a routine, I take a step back and look at our current circumstances and how far we've come. I look into a sea of blue and see not someone who's drowning, but oceans of love and respect. This is where I choose to swim, and this is what I've earned. 

In case it's not clear, I've earned this by listening, by supporting, by encouraging, and by nurturing. This is how you make something worthwhile and at first imaginary come to life. 

sometimes it sings.

I stole fifteen minutes in the sun by the pool today. I wish it were ours. Before too long, there was company, and everything got louder and more social; more social and relaxing don't seem to be my thing this weekend. I retreated. I retreat. Sometimes I have to find the quiet or I'll go mad. Today, during band practice wasn't a good time to need quiet--in fact, being in a band is so much the opposite of 1. what I thought it would be, and 2. peaceful and/or evoking harmony both within me and among members. As for the latter, it does happen, but much more rarely than I expected.

What I did anticipate is that it would be hard work. Not difficult work, but hard work. Like play until you sweat...until you lose your voice pushing forward and really feeling the music. As in, in the present. How I feel music isn't likely the same as how everyone feels music. I hear something, and maybe it has a line that sounds important, or a line that says something I didn't know. Maybe the melody is sad or the harmony is bright. In fact, maybe one line can mean everything to me, or has at one time. From there I like to savor it. Relish it before it can be something that becomes implanted in my memory, at which point it will evoke memories of days past, distant and recent. I study it from the inside out, and hear all of the parts separately and then occasionally as one. This is my curse. Because I can't love everything I play. I don't have enough time to savor it, and I cannot become a consumer of it. I listen the same way as I eat. I am mindful. I eat slowly, and stop when I'm full. If I were to keep consuming beyond that I would become sluggish and most of all disinterested in food. I leave a little room for dessert. I breathe. When my heart is full, I stop and listen to it beat. This is not a want. It is a need. Both in life and in music.

I've always been fairly confident in my ability to articulate what I think and what I feel. I would like to believe I am honest, but compassionate. For myself, I try to be objective when I know I'm in love with a song. In fact, that is when I'm the most critical of myself--I don't want to be blinded by my love and miss the fact that I haven't achieved the thing in the song that moved me to begin with. I played a song today that I thought was fun, and I know it's just not there. I'm o.k. with that. If someone else told me it wasn't working well, I am 100 percent positive I would agree. No harm, no foul. I'm not a fantastic singer--I just get by. I'll give myself a little bit of space there, because if I really feel it, I think it reaches farther than my own self-loathing permits me to believe at the time. I do O.K. I don't really push to do much of my own well-loved material, primarily because I'm learning how to use empathy to really get into other peoples' heads and feel what they feel. I want to give something I don't know a fair shake. I think they deserve that. A shot at meeting someone who can relate. A friend who if they can't relate can instead be there as a comrade in a fight they'd rather not go alone.

Someone after practice once said, "I just want to stop talking about our feelings so much."

This, now this has to be the most ridiculous thing that I never imagined would be uttered during my short tenure in a band. We are making music mother effers. And what the fuck are we doing if we're not feeling anything? And yet, I just can't make myself feel everything. If I did, I'd go mad, chock full of empathy and starving for one little iota of quiet. Of peace. Of me. What a fucking conundrum.

So tell me. Am I in the wrong place at the wrong time, or the right place at the wrong time? Do I feel too much, or is it too little?

I'm trying so hard to get to the answer, but the answer keeps changing. So I took a deep breath and came up for air. Maybe that's stupid. Necessary, regardless.

book marked.

I'm posting this partially for a friend, and partially so that I can remember to think about this when I consider art. When I consider writing. Most of all when I go about my business at work and at home. Makes me wonder how much of my business I'm going about, and how much of it is my male counterparts' business, which I seem to take up without question.

I've never much been interested in becoming a feminist. It's such a complex title to give oneself. I mean on one hand, I enjoy taking care of things like cooking and cleaning; on the other there are so many things I could do otherwise. I'm not sure I can even stop myself from liking them. In Psych class I learned about certain activities becoming culturally "embrained," in humans. So not only have I been somehow culturally coerced into liking these activities, I'm actually very, very good at them. Already I am confused about whether I am a victim of misogyny, or just a person who really likes taking care of things around the house. I mean, I love our house and I don't like dirt. But when my boyfriend's working on a project and the shit needs to get done, am I taking the wrong stance by doing it? 

Do I think he's a misogynist--no. For the record, I'm just exploring these ideas. The man pulls his weight. And honestly, I have no desire to perform activities that require heavy lifting and power tools. My max weight lifting limit is about 50 pounds on a good day. Putting things together makes me impatient. So that's his job, as un-feminist as it sounds. 

Still, I found this morning two interesting things on the internet. (Perhaps the WWW should be called the interestingnet?)

One is a zine project by feminists and for the rest of the world. The other was an article by Joyce Maynard about J.D. Salinger, which reminded me of someone and reminded me to think about the things I do and why. Her article can be accessed by clicking her name at the bottom of the quote. 


http://itscomplicatedproject.tumblr.com/post/61341010070/to-a-stunning-degree-for-a-period-of-over-half-a
 

a curse and a blessing, blessing and a curse

Said by the boyfriend tonight, after a long hard day. "You have a lethal combination. You have big balls, and a big heart."

I could be filled with doubt and modesty, but I know this is true. I know because my father has the same problem. I've seen him cut down and chewed up because his big mouth, attached (loosely) to his big heart, drew too much attention. And what it all boils down to, is that sometimes when you mean well, and you have the guts to put yourself out there, people want to hate your guts. Not because you're a terrible person, but because they see things through your eyes, and sometimes it just ain't pretty. If you have a big heart, too, be prepared to be hurt. To be sad. To feel unfulfilled. To feel mortally wounded, even though you're still alive.

I'm not on a sinking ship. However, if I were, I'd be the bearer of bad news who goes down with the crew and passengers. All of whom are pissed at me for telling them we're on the sinking ship.

Where does this leave me today? Well, I've had a good few cries. O.K., outright sobs. I don't feel sorry for me. My heart will mend. It always does.

Comes with the territory.

5:30 a.m.

I have a good mind for procrastinating. Unfortunately, I have a good mind to get some shit done, and said mind has woken me up at 4:45 in the morning. I have five papers due in eight days. One is halfway done.

A few months ago, I didn't feel like going to school. The opportunity is the chance of a lifetime. Instead of not deciding, or waiting for determination to take hold, I just applied. Then I got in. Yet, I still didn't feel like it. I've learned one thing in my nearly 40 years on the planet--sometimes listening to your feelings isn't the only way to make a decision. Now, not only do I feel like it, but I'm for the most part enjoying it. The feeling of getting a decent if not excellent grade makes me look forward to the next assignment. The feeling of developing my critical thinking skills and putting them to task is better than I could have guessed. Spring semester is almost over, and luckily summer sessions are just around the corner. So going to school; not so bad. I had always hoped it would happen sooner than this, but if I do what I think I can do, I'll be done in five years.

I stumbled into a wonderful article about mental "illness," yesterday. It raised the question: why do doctors want to keep us sick? Ethically, they are a mess. Our country and its views about mental illness are a mess. We are capable of so much more than just "managing" our anxiety, our anger, our control issues, our trust issues...the list of our issues is never ending. The list of issues is human nature, declared an illness. It also made me question my approach, which right now is medication in (very) small doses. I haven't determined that it's a good idea not to have a little bit of synthetic, but effective help. I don't judge myself in that way. No one should. However, I don't want my emotional and probably biological glitches to become a life sentence. My life goals should not be to manage my anxiety. If that were the case, I would avoid stressful situations. I wouldn't strive to do well at work. I wouldn't go to school. I wouldn't have bought a house. But I also don't want to enjoy those things in the context of managing the stress they inflict. I need to enjoy them. This is required therapy.

I recently took a Mindfulness course, and I got more out of that than I could have imagined. The mindful way of living is better than the manageable way of living. I was already doing much of it. Practicing more made it that much better. Made me more present. I don't do the dishes on autopilot anymore. I feel the warm water, the soapy sponge, the clean of rinsing the soap off of the shiny smooth surfaces of our coffee cups. O.K., so maybe that sounds crazy. But it brings me into the present, into my life, rather than into the abyss of doing most of what I do every day while thinking about the rest of my life. It immerses me in the rest of my life, which is right now. After all, hearing my breath right now means I'm alive. When I don't hear it, I'm not sure where I'll be or what I'm doing. And then bam, there's the panic.

As of today, I have seven days to write four and a half papers. Half of one day is band practice. The remainder of that day is a birthday celebration (dinner) for my sister's birthday. The day after my papers are due is our housewarming party. Plus work. Plus six days of cooking dinner and yes, doing dishes. Yet, I'm not particularly anxious. Not that it matters if I were.

I still have better things to do than sit around and manage my anxiety.