Friday, January 29, 2016
Can't face it right now, so...unless I find time and space to face it tomorrow, it looks like I might just not have health coverage until I get a real fucking job. Note to self: don't get sick. (PS, I'm feeling like I might be getting sick.)
In other news, Ian and I finally retrieved my ring today from the jewelers, it having been resized. (Did I mention that we're engaged? This is a relatively new thing.)
In reading old blogs I am noticing that I used to write much nicer things. I used to spend much more time alone, watching the sky; I used to spend much more time alone, thinking and writing about the sky, and about the trees, and about my heart. Where is all that now? Though I have no desire to own my own pet, I am beginning to think that I ought to have a dog--because evidently that is the only damn way I get myself outside for walks every day. And it seems that not walking means not breathing, in an expansive metaphorical sense.
It doesn't help much that I've been living in the city, and people discourage me from walking alone at night. This doesn't mean that I don't ever do it, but when I do, I feel like I need to look purposeful. Looking purposeful cuts down significantly on meandering, and walking with my face up to the stars, and occasionally sinking to my knees in prayer, or joy, or grief. There has been none of that here, and I am missing it.
Perhaps the issue is in part that I'm never alone. I haven't particularly been feeling that "get the fuck away from me" feeling (which is probably a good sign, in some ways), but nevertheless I haven't really spent any time alone since I moved in with Ian and Sara. And yet, even when I took my mostly-solo August road trip this past fall, I still moved too fast to stop and reflect in any meaningful way. I filled almost every moment with driving, rushing, researching, audio books, and exhaustion. I spent weeks alone, and weeks distracted. I can't say I didn't spend any time in quiet reflection, but I did spend far too little.
It seems that the lesson here is that I do not only need to learn to take time alone for myself--I need to learn to utilize it for myself. Not for rushing from one destination to another, but for simply being, and watching, and appreciating the world and the blessings around me. I need to feed and soothe and caress the quiet, expansive thing in me that is my spirit--the quiet presence that will so easily shrink and defer to the frantic, purposeless demands of whatever stupid whim happens to be yelling at any given moment. I've been spending all my time rushing around in vain attempts to quiet those endless whims, and forgetting that attention only makes them louder. That the only peace I'll ever find is inward.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
I've spent rather a lot of time recently with a very wise and very generous friend, revamping my resume and writing a skeleton cover letter in preparation for applications to "real adult" jobs...but I forgot, during this whole process, about ProveIt tests.
It's really easy to say things like, "yeah, I'm familiar with the Microsoft Office suite," and then figure that shit out on the fly (initially mistyped that as "on the sly," which is also appropriate), but it's a lot harder to, you know, pass a test on said Office programs. Particularly Excel. Fuck Excel.
Also, apparently ten-key is a thing? I'm a pretty great typist, but not at ten-key.
In other news, I'm good. I mean, the holidays were insane. Absurd. Among other things, an uncle had open heart surgery just before Christmas, and my car bit the dust, and around 11 pm Christmas eve I ran over a dead deer in the middle of an empty highway in a borrowed car, which was totally not stressful at all.
But I got through it, we all got through it (except for my beautiful car), and then. And then on new years' day, Ian proposed on a walk in the woods. So that was lovely, and we're engaged now. And having a wedding and a car to pay for, I've come to accept that the time has come for me to acquire a "real adult" job--the kind with regular hours, and regular pay, and maybe even sick days and PTO and health insurance and company holidays.
I've been considering several companies, and I've applied to three positions at one as well as having my resume forwarded to a company recruiter, and now they've sent me this GD ProveIt test. So here I go.
*I just realized that I'm missing a skirt that I like a lot. A burgundy one from H&M. I'm really hoping that it's in the dead Saab.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
God, I am way more of a suicide risk than anyone realizes. Most (?) of the time I'm fine, but it takes about three seconds for me to go from functional to about-to-throw-in-the-towel. And it happens a lot. Maybe most days. Maybe a couple of times a week. I don't know.
That sounds so extreme. I'm not saying that I've got elaborate plans or anything, letters composed, anything like that. I just wish dying didn't feel like such a good idea. Like a fantasy vacation I don't ever have to come home from.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Update: getting the fuck out of bed made me feel quite a bit better. And somehow today (or at least this evening) I've been doing a better job of not withering under the weight of all the scary things in my life that I can't control. Hard to say whether that's health or denial, but for now I'll take what I can get.
On another note, this just happened.
Marie: I am lying around in a towel and I just found a spider crawling on my inner thigh. Sweet dreams.
Ian: I just drank a gnat with my medicine. Saw it right as I was gulping.
Marie: high five.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
This post is one that wanders, according to my custom.
It's a gorgeous night tonight, and somehow walking under the nearly full moon made me start to think about what I want.
And what I want is to do what I want. Just me. No compromising or making nice, which feels as natural as breathing. And so when I daydream, I daydream about being alone.
I want to spend my days writing and walking by the water, rising early and drinking coffee in sunlit rooms (built to bring the outside in), staying up late under the stars, reading poetry, doing yoga. That's my most persistent daydream. The daydream of my stilted, crumbly heart.
Of course, there are others. I want--perhaps on principle--to be a person who welcomes others into her home. The kind of woman my great aunt was, who hosts missionaries and refugees, who invites people to dinner, who opens her home and heart to those in need.
I also want to move in with my friend Kelly. I want to treat my car nicely, as it deserves to be treated: get her all fixed and tuned up, clean her out, paint her pretty colors with rustoleum. I want...hmm. I want to be more of a doer, and less of a killer-of-time. I can kill time like it's an Olympic sport I've been training for all my life, and it's shameful, wasteful, sickening. It is not life-giving. I am learning, slowly, slowly.
And today (or at this point in the evening, yesterday) was my three-year anniversary with Ian. And I want unfair things of him. Or are they unfair? Maybe unfair for me to ask, or expect, or maybe "unfair" is a meaningless term here. But:
Sometimes I want to marry him. Is it, would it be settling? Marriage is not something I desperately want right now. I don't walk around feeling overwhelmed with lovey fuzzies. I'm not consistent in my feelings and I am often uncomfortable with them. But at times I do feel the lovey fuzzies. And in some ways we balance each other quite well. And in some ways we drive each other nuts. Am I supposed to wait for or find someone who makes me feel lovey fuzzies more consistently, more confidently, or what?
Regarding nuts: I am, in many ways, quite independent. I do not always respond well to advice, or to others' expressions of concern for my safety. I also don't like to plan things. Typically I'd rather wing it. Also I am unbelievably forgetful. All that drives Ian nuts, and still he graciously acts as my personal reminder service on a regular basis.
Here's what drives me nuts: Ian is not very independent. I don't mean to imply that he is emotionally dependent, but rather that he likes to do things together, and make decisions together, and sometimes those things are hard for me. He also likes to plan things down to the most minute details, which I find tiresome (but which I admit is a good quality). The downside there is that he is not comfortable with much spontaneity, and that is difficult for me. Lastly, anxiety. He is working with it, and working hard. Still, wrong as I may be, I have been unable to escape the idea that anxiety is the king of Ian's life. Because of that idea or fact or whatever it is I become irritable, angry, condescending, demanding, and sometimes mean, and that needs to stop one way or another.
More importantly than the way we drive each other nuts though is the way we communicate. There is plenty of friction in our relationship--there is a lot we don't have in common--but we go out of our way almost daily to better understand ourselves and one another. I've never had a relationship with communication this good, and I definitely can't take the credit here. Every step of the way, this man has asked questions, communicated his feelings and frustrations, and, when I finally started talking, listened to what I had to say. We often have trouble understanding one another; for example, I strongly suspect that the phrase, "life giving," would have no meaning for Ian. And that upsets me because I want the things that are important to me to be important to everyone I care about. I want Ian to believe in the God I believe in, and to feel the connections and the joys I feel at the same moments I feel them*. But isn't that life? As difficult as it is for me to grasp, life is different for everyone. The best we can do is try our best to bridge the gaps.
*why? Because I'd feel connected? Because I'd believe in his depth of emotion? Because I feel that I'm "right," and I want him to be right too? I don't know. There is a story I've heard about a child with autism who had trouble grasping the idea that everyone had a different point of view, and everyone had a different experience of the world. Sometimes I feel like that child.