Wanting

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.

Apparently it's that time again

I wish I wanted to post here more. It seems like I always find myself wanting to look back on something that I feel I must have written about, and then find that I didn't.


Things have been okay. I've been dreaming a lot--daydreaming sometimes about this idea I've had for a while about becoming a counselor, and daydreaming a lot more about designing and building and sometimes even living in tiny houses of the variety that can fit on an 8x20' trailer, and be hauled around the country. I have such a love of efficient design, and of the idea of efficient living--living without the unnecessary accumulation of the mounds of stuff that perversely ensnare our affections and weigh down our lives without enriching them at all. More recently this has expanded to include the desire for a small, high mpg car. I'm tired of using up gas to lug around all this car that I'm not even using. I'm using the driver's seat and maybe the passenger's seat too, and yet I'm pulling the weight of both back seats and a trunk halfway full of crap that was left there by the family members who drove the car before it came into my hands.

Anyway, I've been funding the daydreaming by still working part time at that daycare I thought I had quit back in the spring, and doing some odd jobs for various people, mostly extended family members. I am tired of this, and I want to find doorways into something new, but I don't know where they are. And I don't know how to stop being afraid of committing to a plan.


And I love Christmas, and it's my favorite holiday, but I am tired, so tired of getting depressed every Christmas season. Back when I was with David (Oh Lord, his name is still like honey. Will that ever fade?) I thought that my issues at Christmastime were due to strife--some new one each year--within our relationship, but it doesn't seem to have changed. Or maybe it did, and maybe I am just in another doomed relationship and I can somehow feel it and it is hurting. I don't know. Was I sad like this last year? The year before? I can't remember. Lately I feel like I can't remember anything. And sometimes that's okay. Sometimes I feel like I just live in the present, I just am where I am, and maybe that's okay. But sometimes I feel this void where memories should be, and I feel like I am surrounded by nothingness, and it's a frightening thing. Obviously I don't exactly have alzheimer's, but I was listening to this radio special last night, and a man from Ireland was talking about his childhood Christmases, citing memory after memory after memory, and it was lovely--but I don't have that. I have a handful, but for the most part it's all a haze. Everything runs together. Why? Does that happen for everyone? Does everyone's mind feel like a chalkboard in the rain?


I admitted to myself tonight that I've been unhappy. It's been going on a while--weeks? Some months?--but I have not been seeing it. But sobbing on the floor (apparently that is my red flag of choice this past year or so) is difficult to ignore. So. Now what.

Ruminant

Perhaps it is silly and ill-advised to begin everything I write about the workings of my mind under the assumption that it won't make sense to everyone. Maybe my mind is much like most other people's. Or maybe, even if that is the case, the assumption of misunderstanding helps me to write more clearly. I don't know. I don't know what it was that I had been planning to write about when I thought the above, as I started up my car to come home from tutoring. It needs an oil change. And some stop leak.


Something I was thinking of earlier, though (today? yesterday?) was that when it comes to my having to interact with the emotions of others, I feel like a bull in a china shop. I do. It's fine with me for you to feel whatever way, and I can celebrate with you or hold and comfort you or commiserate, or listen. I have no problem with any of those things. But if I am in some way actually involved in your emotional whatever, I get uncomfortable. And if, God forbid, any part of your emotional well-being is affected in any real way by the state of my emotions, then, though I may hide it fairly well, I'm probably losing my shit over here. So that's been the case somewhat often lately.



I've remembered what I was thinking before, I think. It was about outlook, and attitude I guess. Or about the way depression works. I'm not really depressed, but I am getting my emotions tangled with another person's, lately, and also I am exhausted and also I am sick, and those together can roughly amount to depression if I am not careful about keeping them contained, controlled, and brief.

My life is pretty good right now. I have a job, I have a sweet, sarcastic, funny, and attentive boyfriend, I have great friends and a good support network, I have trips coming up that I'm looking forward to, and soon I'll be moving in with my best friend. But still, on days like today, during weeks like this, everything is dampened by a smoggy haze of negativity and frustration. It's not that the haze can't be broken--today, on the way to tutoring, a man rode past on his motorcycle, and the sound made me grin like a fool, because that motor noise sounds like the beach, and childhood happiness to me--but thirty seconds later my mouth was a thin line again, my eyes were grainy again, and I stared with mild annoyance at the road ahead. On hazy, smoggy days, the film will always seep back and fill the cracks and holes. That's why I felt so blessed yesterday and Monday when I woke up unhappy and phlegmy and hating the world, and, following some brief, silent prayers for assistance, somehow managed to find a way through into a lighter place.

And on light-filled days, metaphorically speaking, almost nothing can stop it. Working ten hours? No problem. Nothing good to eat? No big deal. Pouring down rain? I love rain. What a gorgeous day this is!

I was thinking yesterday about how careful I tend to be about my attitude, and I started to wonder why other people aren't similarly attentive. And then I realized that it's probably because most of them can afford not to be, and the others don't know how to do it. A bad attitude is a trap. There's no two ways about it. A poor outlook is a trap, and the deeper you get, the harder it is to get free. And the more you spread it, the greater the number of people you can pull down with you. I can't allow myself to do that for long. Unless I want to find myself back where I've been before, where I was for so many years, I can't allow myself to wallow in fatigue or anger or frustration for any length of time. I can't allow myself to play the victim.

Of course, I can't just ignore those feelings either--I'm fairly certain that my unconscious habit of ignoring emotions as a matter of course was what got me started on the whole depressive cycle in the first place. Which, if you think about it, may loop back around and explain a little bit of the "bull in the china shop" paragraph above. I'm still working it all out. I guess I probably always will be.


In other news, I saw my first bumblebee of the year this morning. He* made me smile.

































*Technically speaking, all worker bees are female. But I still think of them as hims, because I can, and I do what I want.

What's going on these days

Possibly this isn't the best time to write, as I am rather exhausted at the moment, but for once I have the inclination and so I will run with it, and keep the reactionary emotionality out of it as best I can.


Work: I'm still doing the with-kids stuff and also still doing some odd jobs (tutoring, babysitting, pet sitting, whatever). My attitude toward my "real job" varies, often depending on my energy level and on whether I have done anything really flipping stupid at work lately. Regardless, I'm about to start picking up more hours by teaching P.E. and movement to preschoolers, so that should put me at full time. I'm utterly stressed out by it all at the moment, but we'll see how it goes, yes? Yes.


Reading: I am incredibly lucky to have 40 minutes or so every day during which I basically get paid to sit in a van and read while I wait for kids to be let out of school. I have been enjoying the kindle I received for Christmas.


Interpersonal interaction (read: light exercises in hedonism*) : So, though I seriously doubted that they would, things have ended up going with this guy (mentioned at the bottom of the link). Ian. We spent three and a half months hanging out a lot and texting a ridiculous amount and kind of liking each other and being indecisive (because, let's be real, we only have so much in common), and appear to have both decided to quit overanalyzing our lives and just give it a go. So...here we go, I guess. Anyway, he's one of the main reasons I'm so deliriously tired this week, and he is quite a good Valentine. I have a dozen long-stem roses, and candies from Italy and New York, and more honesty than I might have expected. I'm so unromantic; I feel like I inadvertently cancel out his sporadic attempts to be so. I am so unused to being given random gifts (I guess Valentine's Day is a typical gift-giving time, but I'm still not used to it) that I never know how to react. But he is witty and sarcastic and sweet and thoughtful. And I like him.



































*Look, I'm being emotional like I said I was, okay? "As best I can" doesn't mean "perfectly."

Reasons

I think a part of the reason that I have been (sometimes consciously, sometimes not) avoiding writing lately is that I've been pointedly ignoring this little existential crisis I've been having. It is totally unlike anything anybody else in the world has ever experienced and it goes something like this: what's the point of all this? I don't see a point. I mean, life is kind of nice sometimes I guess, but it doesn't really seem worth it. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow and (assuming I didn't end up having to live on in extreme pain/disability) I'd probably be okay with it.


It should go without saying (or at least, I tell myself that it should) that I probably wouldn't be all that okay with it (or at least, I tell myself I wouldn't), but that's how I've been feeling about all this lately. Just don't really feel like doing it. Like doing any of it. So I haven't been writing.

Probably this is all the result of some minor depression, dysthymia I guess, that is sapping my will to live and write and listen to music, or possibly it's related to my paralyzing fear of decision-making and the accruement of additional debt and the idea that I will never figure out what to do with my life, never find the motivation to just, for God's sake, do something that will pay the bills, never again find the will to really live, and so on. I know that some days a beautiful flower is enough to keep me going, but other days, and all of them lately, it seems like nothing is enough.

It occurs to me that this might be remedied if I did x or y or z--if I went back to school and became a counselor, or if I fell in love, or if I have children someday--but I wonder whether any of that is actually true; whether any of it would actually work. Whether this all feels pointless because I am doing nothing that has any real purpose, or whether it feels pointless because the days are getting shorter, or because my brain or hormones are somehow otherwise unbalanced, and I need to correct the imbalance with some kind of dietary change or sleep schedule or scintillating, brilliant conversation (Anna, are you free?) or self-talk or therapy. This kind of depression can be difficult to address via emotional bootstrapping, which (in addition to the wait-it-out method) is the way I have handled just about every other depressive episode I have ever encountered, because it's just a general feeling of malaise. There are very few specific thought patterns to address, very few negative thought habits to replace with positive ones, and so on.

Or maybe I just need to look harder.

Shift. And I do what I want.

My winter sky is back! The trees have stretched out their arms and intertwined their fingers in sleep, and the stars shine again through the empty spaces. Tonight the cold wind cut through my sweater and chilled my bare knees between the hem of my skirt and the tops of my boots, and I directed a toothy grin toward Orion.

And now, of course, the house feels like it's a hundred degrees, and I'm sitting in the front window (because that's where my computer lives, lately) with no shirt on. Good thing this isn't a highly trafficked street.



I was feeling so emo earlier this week--witness the past couple of entries--and two nights in a row I was rescued by unexpected phone calls from friends. One from a college friend (Katy) I haven't had a good conversation with since, well, probably since before graduation, and another from my we-always-hang-out friend Sara. Katy and I talked for over two hours, which was awesome. And she'll be in town soon! Or in the town where we went to school, which is only an hour away. That's a far sight closer than Salt Lake City, so I'll take it. Anyway it occurred to me that I had started getting emo around the time that I had stopped taking these vitamins that I had started taking. Looks like that may have been the reason, and it turns out that B-complex vitamins really do play a role in emotional health. Who'd have guessed it?


Also: boys.

A feeling*

Not that life is particularly bad at the moment--there are times of happiness or times when great songs come on the radio or the sky is just gorgeous or this homemade thick hot toast spread with Nutella is nonsensically delicious--but I feel like poison is circulating in my bloodstream, or in the air I'm breathing. I love Mondays right now, because I have a voice lesson and I get to tutor, and the two things are spaced such that I have a pretty airtight excuse not to do any other outside-the-house work unless I want to. But when I left the house for the voice lesson, though I liked what I was wearing, felt put-together and reasonably rested, etc, I felt pallid and sickly. It was similar this past weekend. I'd been looking forward to the Folk Festival, to JP's weekend visit, and to the late-night dances with the Jammin' on the James folks for months and weeks, respectively--but when the time came, I had no motivation to do anything. Friday night I wanted to stay in and watch a movie. We had to drag ourselves out. Saturday JP and I were both inexplicably in such terrible moods that the day was a near-total loss for us. We didn't go to either of the Jammin' on the James dances at all. Luckily, Sunday was (mostly) pretty great**. But I need to find out what's poisoning me like this.

























*I write this and am reminded of Finch's short monologue in V for Vendetta: "I suddenly had this feeling that everything was connected. It was like I could see the whole thing. One long chain of events that stretched all the way back before Larkhill. I felt like I could see everything that had happened. And everything that was going to happen. It was like a perfect pattern, laid out in front of me, and I realized that we were all part of it, and all trapped by it."
"So do you know what's gonna happen?"
"No. It was a feeling."

**There was a keilidh! It was spelled "ceili," as it was Irish rather than Scottish, but it was the same. It was excellent.

EMO ME

I am so lonely today. And yesterday. And possibly the day before, and sometime last week. I am ready to stop being lonely now. Okay? Okay. Ready, go.

It's obnoxious. Being bored and being single are things that happen. Not a big deal. And singleness has been...most of my life. You know? And a solid year and a couple of months, this latest go round. And (excepting previous periods of heartache) it generally hasn't been that big a deal. But sometimes, suddenly, it's everything. It's all that matters. I'm not in love and I never will be. I'm not a mom and I never will be. And while we're at it, I'm not gainfully employed and never will be (picture that in "crypt keeper" style font), and I'm not happy AND DAMMIT, NEVER WILL BE. I mean, obviously. Obviously this isn't due to a routine hormone imbalance and messed-up sleep schedule and horrible diet over the past few days. No. Of course not. Couldn't be that.



Wildlife I have seen and/or rescued whilst house sitting for Sara's family this week:
brown rabbit (seen)
opossum (seen)
orangey-skinned turtle (seen and rescued)


Last night (being Thursday night) was my last tutoring session with Suzanne for the foreseeable future. I wrote down the Einstein quote for her: "Everyone is a genius--but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid." I'm going to miss that girl.


I forgot the other things.


Edit:

Before going to bed I pulled up my itunes and went to a song that I love: "Table for Two." The lyrics are more apt than I had intended them to be.

Danny and I had another late night over pancakes. We talked about soccer, and how every man's just the same. We made speculation on the whos and the whens of our futures, and how everyone's lonely, but still, we just couldn't complain. And how we just hate being alone. Could I have missed my only chance? And now I'm just wasting my time by looking around.
But you know I know better. I'm not gonna worry about nothing. 'Cause if the birds and the flowers survive, then I'll make it okay. Given a chance and a rock, see which one breaks a window, and see which one keeps me up all night and into the day. 
Because I'm so scared of being alone, that I forget what house I live in. And that it's not my job to wait by the phone for her to call.
This day's been crazy, but everything's happened on schedule: from the rain and the cold to the drink that I spilled on my shirt. 'Cause you knew how you'd save me before I fell dead in the garden, and you knew this day long before you made me out of dirt. And you know the plans that you have for me, and you can't plan the ends, and not plan the means, and so I suppose I just need some peace, just to get me to sleep.

Oh, right.

It's been a while since I've dealt with my habit of emotional subduction. Or rather, I deal with it all the time, but I generally deal with it in solitude. It's been a very long time since I considered the addition of another variable--another person. And when I am just floating along in my solitary state I sit around and daydream about connecting with other people--but then when I try to let other people get closer, I begin to remember the difficulties, and the hoops I put everyone through, including myself.


I wish it were warm enough to go swimming in the river, or to drive up to the mountains and jump off redneck rock in Goshen Pass, or dive into the lake at Douthat. I'd even settle for a chlorinated pool right now. I just crave the feeling of slicing through the water, holding my breath and diving down deep, and being held and borne up by that viscous cool blueness.



For a while now I've loved Leona Lewis's song "Better In Time," and I just went to watch the video on Youtube before buying the song on Itunes. And then I went to watch another of her videos. And then another. I think I may buy her album in a moment. Or one of her albums? I don't know how many she has--I just really like her.

From both sides of the border.

Written in the early afternoon:

The things I have evidently not been allowing myself to remember to talk about are building. I'm in such a terrible mood today. I'm so disappointed in myself--in my actions, in my thoughts, in who I am.


Don't worry, I'll probably stop being so emo soon.


But I miss David today, which, to be frank, is awful. Off and on I've been missing being-in-a-relationship, obviously, but today my brain jumped to him without permission, and I started yelling profanities in the car.

I am considering the idea of listing things with which I am running out of patience.


Written in the early evening:

As I had hoped, the bad mood has lessened with the progression of the day, with work, with the eating of thin mints and the enjoyment of NPR. The level of deliciousness present in the common thin mint cookie simply defies reason. It doesn't even make sense how tasty they are.

It occurred to me as I walked down those exterior stairs into the basement where I've been painting that, although an argument could be made that this was just a "bad day," such an argument should not be made. Yes, Augie threw up some small pieces of plastic this morning. Yes, I was late to church for no reason. Yes, my brain jumped to David and yes I've been sinking energy into this one obnoxious-as-hell Godforsaken website (not blogger, of course) for a week or two and I'm getting sick of it, but those things should not be allowed to dictate my mood. And they don't. I dictate it. I am in charge. It's a good thing to remember.

Currently I'm waiting for Augie to digest his dinner for a little while before taking him for a walk, then I'll be heading to Kelly's. I've been unintentionally flaky and obnoxious toward her this weekend, and she is so forgiving. I don't deserve it. Why does she like me, again?

Also, please, for the love of God, do not ever let me get a dog. I do not want a dog. Ever. Ever, ever, ever, ever, f-ing ever. They're sweet and everything, but for me, the walking and the feeding and the poop-scooping and vomit-cleaning and the inability to leave them for any length of time and the vet's bills and the training and so on are so not worth it. Not even close to worth it. Also, I loathe puppy eyes. The dominance of this part of me varies depending on my mood and level of fatigue and so on, but it is always there.



Lastly, and unrelatedly, I love poetry. Some of you people who are theoretically reading this probably already know that. Apparently April is National Poetry Month here in the states, which I've probably realized before but never bothered to try to remember. It's awesome though. Awesome. This information courtesy of nateshorb.

In honor of all this and also because I just now remembered, here's a poem that this morning I was thinking of posting. It is by John Donne. You may recognize it. It's been my anthem off and on for a long time now.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for, you
as yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
that I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurped town, to another due,
labor to admit you, but oh, to no end,
reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,
but is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly "I love you," and would be loved fain,
but am betrothed unto your enemy:
divorce me, untie, or break that knot again;
take me to you, imprison me, for I

except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

(Sonnets FTW. Traditional paragraph breaks inserted by me for ease of reading/decoding.)


Okay and lastly for real this time, whilst typing the above and deciding on a case-by-case basis whether to preserve or update archaic spelling and punctuation, I was reminded of this most excellent song by a band known as Vampire Weekend:



Aside from the excellence of the music, I would like you to note the fact that this entire video is one continuous shot.

Moods and cloud cover

I think things out in mental prose when I'm emotional or thoughtful, and then, if I remember and get around to it, I write them here. And then, if I deem them to be too emotional (usually read: embarrassing), I go back and qualify everything. Or if I get angry or annoyed with myself over what a sappy, soppy mess I've become, which happens with some regularity, I go back and qualify everything. (Perhaps it's utterly obvious that I am hugely uncomfortable with emotion, and that writing for me is an exercise in allowing and processing emotion, and so I don't need to say this. I don't know. Anyway.) I don't lie, per se, but I cover. Like the unsent, unflattering (to me) letter to David. It's not that it isn't true. Any of it--the letter or the added qualifications. But I would feel horrible, I think, if he read what I wrote the other day, because I so minimized the depth of it.
The letter: I do feel that way. I don't usually think about it. Those embers are still there. I do sometimes get teary when particularly-close-to-home songs come on the radio. And when they come on, and I realize halfway through that I didn't immediately get emotional, I start feeling all proud of myself. The brokenness thing is true, and I hate it. Having grown a little past that fit in the last twelve months, I now become uncomfortable and irritated when we're together, and I don't like it. Don't like being together. But I still miss being together. I guess it, this mess, might be a little like putting on a shirt that used to fit, that I used to love. (So much.) I remember it looking and feeling great. But it doesn't fit anymore, and its colors have faded while my skin has darkened in the sun. And when I put it on, it's uncomfortable and unflattering. The shirt has changed a little, and I have changed a lot.

And I write things like "and I'm never attracted to anyone anymore," which is generally, but not utterly, true--and then I feel like it will screw up any shot I might have with any guy who reads it. So I qualify. And that sickens me a little. On the one hand, I'm not generally attracted, even when I expect to be, and it is often (or seems to be) largely due to a not-like-David factor. That sickens me a bit as well. But rarely doesn't mean never. And so on the other hand, well, one, I don't want to seem like a complete psycho, even if I guess sometimes a case could be made that maybe I am. And two, being emotionally retarded (no, literally--not in an offensive slangy way) doesn't mean that I'll never grow out of it or that I want to stay in this stupid stuck-in-the-past state forever. I mean, PLEASE, SOMEBODY, PLEASE convince me that my shot at love isn't over. The very idea is ridiculous--it's not like our relationship was all sunshine and flowers and declarations of love; more like pretty good times punctuated by piercing, breathtaking doubt--but I still find it incredibly difficult to let go.


Plus, dammit, I'm lonely. Not for a social life. For such a close friend and companion. I really miss that.


Why, and how, do things turn into such a mess sometimes?

I am Alice.

1. I learned to use a chainsaw yesterday. I used said chainsaw again today. My back aches.

2. I am moody this past weekend, through today.

3. I dislike having disagreements with the woman who processes my tutoring invoices. I got an email back saying that $29 had been removed from my total invoiced, because "the last payment processed included a session...on 12/7 that had already been paid." This is despite the fact that I "showed my work" (as it were) as requested, and made a note on my invoice that there were a few dates from December on the scans (with "x"s next to them!) that had already been invoiced, and that those should be ignored. I listed the dates I was invoicing. I added up the hours. I multiplied the hours times the rate and showed the total. Even so, $29 was subtracted from my invoice. I feel like she thinks I'm trying to cheat the company or something. I'm sure she has a lot of invoices to go through, but it's still irritating. Hopefully she will read my [more politely worded than this] "um no, I did not invoice you for that date, here is an excerpt from my invoice which shows you the dates for which I invoiced you" email and give me back my money, and then I can stop being annoyed.


4. The chainsaw thing was pretty cool. I'm pretty excited about that. While I have opened up to other power tools, I have been holding off on chainsaws because they are, in my estimation, about the least safe power tool ever. But whatever. I helped cut down and cut up a tree. It's because I'm a badass. (Ha.) It's been nice to work outside for the past few days though, even if the unseasonably warm weather is kind of weird. The crocuses have been up for at least a week now, and I heard frogs tonight when I walked Miley. As I said the other day, I really hope they don't freeze. The low again the night after tomorrow is projected to be 31 degrees.


It rained today, though it was supposed to thunderstorm. While I was working this afternoon, painting and clearing brush in the yard, I could feel the air thicken with the coming rain. The first fat drops splattered onto my windshield just after I got into the car. I have been waiting for a sky-splitting, tree-cracking thunderstorm all night. Come on, weather!

I thought I had more to say, but I guess not--or not at this moment. There have been some things about David floating around in my head though, lately. Sunday it will have been a year since we broke up. I considered writing him an extremely dramatic letter, and I guess I'll probably consider it again. Something along these fairly predictable lines:

I think I'll always love you, though I've put out the flames. The embers are banked in my pocket. I'm not asking for anything, because I know that the ways in which we fit together are broken ways. The broken pieces of me fit alongside the broken pieces of you and that keeps us each broken. Then maybe something else about how I never ("never") find other people attractive anymore* unless I convince myself to. And then about how, (hand to brow,) this will be the last letter I ever send to you. Goodbye [and have a nice life].

As though I could ever send or stick to or even consistently fit the description of such a thing. It only seems like a good idea when I'm feeling emotional and then "How's It Gonna Be" comes on the radio, or "Two Coins" gets stuck in my head.

In my defense, I've loved Third Eye Blind (the 3EB album, anyway) since sometime in middle school, and Dispatch since 2004, which was before I even knew David. So me loving those songs far predates me being stupidly-broken-up-emo.

Excuse me. Apparently it's "How's It Going To Be," and he simply mispronounces his own lyrics throughout the song:




On another note, my brother Jack has a Netflix subscription on the tv downstairs, and I watched Alice In Wonderland tonight. I had low expectations, which is, in my opinion, the best way to approach movies. (High expectations are nearly always dashed, even by good movies. This is possibly because I set my standards extremely high or extremely low--I'm not good at middle ground.)

I loved it. I loved it. I loved that it made sense of a story I've never understood; not that I gave it much effort or even read all the way through, but it had always been a bit of a puzzle. So much nonsense. Seeing the story gave it shape for me. And then, even more, I loved the idea of Alice becoming Alice. "You've lost your muchness," the Mad Hatter said. And she found it again. She grew back into herself. "I sometimes believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast," said Alice. "Count them, Alice. One: there's a potion that can make you shrink. Two: and a  cake that can make you grow. Three: animals can talk. Four, Alice! Cats can disappear. Five: there's a place called Wonderland. Six: I can slay the Jabberwocky."




















*I seriously have had this thought lately. A lot. The part I failed to remember every time though was that I tend to have long periods of singleness between relationships. This is not because no one ever wants to date me. This is because I never want to date anyone. Or, more accurately, I nearly always want to date someone, but hardly ever want to date anyone in particular. And I'm a big believer in not latching on to just any old person and starting a relationship. Partly this is because I'm kind of a closet misanthropist. But! I can slay the Jabberwocky. FTW.

A balmy February evening. And my lonesome.

It's gorgeous tonight. It really is. Not in a dramatic way--it's a little boring if you're looking for fantastic skies, but the moon is full and bright, and the sky is clear. There's a warm breeze blowing from the West, and the smell of damp leaves and dirt is in the air. It's a wonderful fresh smell. I am trying to bear in mind that March is going to come along soon and crush my hopes, but I love this, still. I wish I could sleep out tonight. (I guess technically I could, but I'm too much of a wimp to sleep flat on the hard ground with no mat, and too lazy to set up my hammock. Also, considering how much my body temperature drops when I go to sleep, I'd probably freeze.) After I brought Miley in from our walk, I went out into the back yard and squatted down beneath the moon, and brushed away the top layers of leaves, and pressed my palms into the thawing earth.


I get the feeling that I should write about people--in poetry, that is: I have the urge to write poetry--but I don't like them. Don't like people. Or don't like them close up. I am largely content to brush shoulders with humanity in my day-to-day life, working or going to the grocery store, and then to spend much of the remaining time alone. Lately. Mostly. I don't feel that I have the necessary focus to watch closely enough to write anything of value about a real human interaction. Not these days, anyway. I just like to be alone a lot.

I don't know why this is. I am torn between wanting to embrace it and wanting to fight it. I sometimes worry, in a small corner of my mind, that I will become an eccentric, crusty old woman, self-absorbed and with a misanthropic bent.

But there are people I love. Close up, even, though I often still do better with distance. With occasional real contact.

But is this something wrong with me, or is this just who I am? Is it okay for me to be so solitary and distant? Is it okay for me to feel so cold toward people? It isn't that I don't love; it's just that I would usually rather (or feel that I would rather) love from further back. Maybe. Goodnight.


(Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? Come down from your fences. Open the gate.)

These things happen, I guess.

This week I've dreamed about ghosts and dead bodies. Last night I became so infuriated (set off by Miley, but it couldn't have all been about her) that I had a complete meltdown. My mother woke up because I had been driven from my bed and was huddled in the middle of the living room floor, weeping with rage and frustration. Having woken her up made me feel like such an infant, but I was glad to have someone awake nearby who wasn't insane with anger.

I just don't deal with anger and frustration. I try to, but what I often end up doing is convincing myself that they don't exist and then stuffing them away. I don't know how to do it differently. And bedtime is a crappy time for me anyway, because so often I can't fall asleep, and then I sleep too long. I love actually sleeping, but the beginning and the end of it are the worst.

So I get stressed out at bedtime, especially when I've had a run of rough nights, which I have. And I get frustrated about walking this dog that isn't even mine, especially when my brother keeps switching the times around, which he has. And God knows what else it was about. But I was on the edge when I got into bed, and then.


And then I realized that there was pee in my bed.

Here's something to know about me: if I am asleep or trying to sleep or just waking up, I will try to sleep through anything. In Zimbabwe I tried to stay asleep when there were ants swarming all over my face and upper body, until I woke up enough to convince myself that that was a completely insane idea. So. Pee.

I tried to sleep on the other side of the bed. But I couldn't sleep. I've been a bit of an insomniac lately anyway, and I was too angry to fall asleep. Probably within minutes I was shaking with rage and trying to tear apart the sweatshirt that I was wearing.

Obviously the answer here would be to kick the dog out of my bed (she was in my bed! What was I thinking? I have a completely irrational and inexplicable guilt complex when it comes to dogs.) and change the sheets, but once I've committed myself to going to bed, for some reason I have this stubborn attachment to not getting up again. Maybe this is because I'm already so restless at night that I'm afraid I'd truly never sleep if I let myself get up and do things after I had gone to bed. Anyway, after a while (an hour? Hour and a half? Half hour?) I threw myself out of bed and stormed into the living room, struggling not to tear the house apart or grab the dog by her hind legs and swing her into a wall.

This is why it is a really good idea to learn to actually manage your anger. I am aware that I am painting myself here like a completely insane person--but I'm not. I get this angry, oh, maybe once a year. I hate being angry, so, generally, I don't get angry. People actually comment sometimes on how ridiculously patient I am. And that's how I want to be, and that's how I am the vast majority of the time. But every once in a while circumstances all collude and catch me when I'm exhausted and stressed and hormonal and all the sudden I'm sitting on my hands on the edge of the tub, grinding my teeth, shaking with rage, trying not to speak or rip the toilet seat cover from its hinges and smash the bathroom with it.

I've never broken anything or hurt anyone in anger, by the way. I think the worst I've ever done is kicked my closet door or thrown a shoe at it. I just apparently have not learned to notice the steam rising and vent it before I pass the point of no return.  And like many people, my family is my weakness here. There are wonderful things about family, but no one can find and push all of your buttons the way they can. Last night it was like I was an elevator, and they walked in and just wiped their hands straight down the button panel and watched every single one light up.

I've mentioned before that I sometimes dream of having a soundproof room just for me, with blank walls and filled with breakable objects for me to throw at them or rip apart. This goes back to my being an INTP/INFP, and how we INT/FPs, though we feel deeply, tend to be extremely reticent when it comes to showing emotion. Or registering emotion, in my case. Anyway, the anger vent room fantasy:

I went to bed early tonight (9pm!) and set an alarm to get up at 11 and walk the dog. While I was dozing I had a dream that someone kept bringing things into the walkway outside my door and smashing them or ripping them apart and leaving them strewn all over the ground--pyrex dishes, furniture, and so on. Maybe my subconscious is telling me something.


Writing all this down makes me want to apologize. Anger of that magnitude is such a terrible thing, and it twists everything in its path and leaves me so shaken. I got out of bed today a little after one (I couldn't fall asleep until about six am) and I felt like an invalid recovering from a horrible illness. I felt pale and fragile and quiet. We went to the park today with Miley, and that helped some. The air helped, and the calm water and the quiet park, and the sun gilding the bare branches and vines as it slipped down into the cold grey river.

Statute of limitations?

My throat hurts from crying. What the hell? How long has this been? Six months? And my throat hurts and head aches from wailing near the top of my lungs to this empty house. What happened to me feeling like this was bad but bearable, and all for the best? Can I get that back? Not that I want to, but I'd probably thank myself for it later. Sometimes I want to grab him by his ear and drag him to this desktop, throw him in a chair and say, "read this fucking thing. Read what you have been doing to me with all your 'you're so awesome, but we can't be together' bullshit," in true prima donna fashion.

Because he doesn't read anymore, except very rarely. Because it's unhelpful, because evidently I am "still" some sort of obsession. Just not the dateable kind. Listen to me. I am ridiculous. Why should he be reading this at all? The whole point anyway is that it's optional for all involved, and there is certainly no reason that David should torture himself (much less be expected to) over doing what he thinks is right. And anyway, when I read back, the things I've written are so far from measuring up to what I actually felt that they feel dry and emotionless to me. I probably need a slap in the face. Someone to yell "snap out of it!" and shake me by the shoulders, and hope I don't punch them in the kidneys and then knee them in the face as they go down.




In other news, here is some mold-breaking, boundary-crossing, pigeonhole-destroying art. This guy is not a skateboarder, he's a dancer. (And evidently best friends with a filmographic artist.)

Skateboard Tricks That Shouldnt Be Possible - Watch more Funny  Videos
My friend Aby Page posted this on facebook earlier, from break.com.

Moods/events today

Tired
Groggy
Awake
Grateful For Tea
Grateful For Warm Weather
Worried About Lateness
Thankful For On-Timeness
Laughing
Glad To Train With My Team Leader
Remembering Rapport With Team Leader
Sleepiness
Awakeness
Insecurity
Annoyance
Remembering Irritation With Team Leader
Frustration
Anger
Copping Major Attitude With Team Leader
Brief Crying Spell In B&N Bathroom Stall*
Brief argument
Longer Explanations And Reconciliation
Learning To Trust Team Leader
Getting Friendly-ly Harassed By Local Business Owner
Practicing Pitch And Gaining Confidence
Feeling Good About Day/Work?/Life (?)
Daily Rundown Of The Day
Feeling Good About Day/Work?/Life (?)

going home and talking to Sara (thumbs-up) and eating dinner and watching NCIS (thumbs-up) and checking email and writing this and getting sick of the format and giving up and writing in semi-sentence form. I need a shower. I need a bed. David is coming tomorrow! I'm hoping I'll have enough energy for DC on Saturday. After this week, though, walking around in tennis shoes instead of dress shoes is probably going to feel like a vacation on the beach with free ice cream and mai-thais.






*At which point I thought of the quote from Anne Lamott--"and that was when I first discovered that God is in the ladies' room"--and prayed, "thank you." This was amongst lots of other "should I even be here? Please give me a sign. Please open a door, if I should be somewhere else. Please help me learn and cope. Later, after I'd gone back out to where my team leader was waiting, and woman he had helped the previous day came up and said hello and told me that he was great, and that I would do well. I don't know if that was a sign or not, but it was nice to hear.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but... FML.

I applied for a writing/editing position today, and eventually received this reply:


 "You need to know that when you send an experienced editor a resume, any spelling or grammar flaw is going to be noticed instantly."


I knew this! I know this! I proofread! But, evidently, not well enough to catch "Universty."

fmlfmlfml

I am mortified. I nearly cried.

dammit.



edit:
Scratch that, I did cry. Good and hard, but as quietly as possible, considering that there are other people in the house, and I don't want any sympathy or anyone around when I'm crying, generally speaking. On the upside though, I was able to wash my face until it cooled down enough to pass without notice at the dinner table for a good ten minutes, and by then I apparently looked normal enough to shrug off the one comment that was made.

I've given myself this pep talk: I will not believe that I am a failure. I will not believe that I am worthless. I will not allow myself to believe that I will never get out of this. I will not despair.

Progress.

 The paragraphs below were written via text messages to my email inbox while riding home in the car from a bridesmaids' weekend in Pa. I had planned to visit David, as I thought we'd be taking the route back that would take us past Front Royal, and Kelly had agreed to drop me off, but as the afternoon progressed (and I desperately held on to my hopeless hope of a visit), it finally became clear to me that for multiple reasons (Kelly didn't feel well, we were visiting her grandmother and so not going near Front Royal, David has a cold, Kelly needed to get home to take care of her dog), I wasn't going to be able to go. He and I haven't seen each other in about two weeks, and I had a little emotional crash--pulling my hood up and curling into a ball, and trying not to cry loud enough to be heard. Possibly an overreaction, but to put it mildly, I had really been looking forward to the visit. Anyway, I found myself going to that "this just isn't worth it" place. Later, in the middle of reading an essay about aging, death, and dying from Best American Essays 2006 (of which, so far, I can only say that I hope the book was misnamed), I texted this to my email address:

Writing every day doesn't seem to be an activity at which I excel. I tell myself that all these daily devotions, writings, exercises, prayers, somethings will simply come easy when I 'get on a schedule,' but when will that ever happen? Maybe by the time I die, or maybe by then I will have given in to the mental exhaustion that accompanies constant working to Be Better. Or maybe I will have finally learned to "go with the flow"--to live and love, and to genuinely enjoy life, instead of thinking of giving up whenever I slide* into this "life just isn't worth the effort" mode. Why is it so easy to suddenly find myself there? How can I build a buffer? Will time help? Habitual happiness? Is that something I can find or build? I have been working so hard at it. I have been doing so much better. But "not worth it" is, apparently, still just a state of exhaustion and a disappointment away. How could I give myself to anyone, without being able to trust myself?  Knowing that I might slip away forever at any time?

But maybe I should be grateful for and hopeful over the fact that I have been doing so well, and that I am only bored and tired ("not worth the effort"), and not flashing to ashes inside. You know, knock-on-wood.




*What I was meaning to say was that I need to stop sliding there.

How did I get to be so weird?

Alright, so I've been thinking of a couple of things I wanted to say since whenever it was I last posted on here, and the first is this: I like pink. I mean, I'm really starting to like pink. Anyone who doesn't know the ridiculous details of all my little eccentricities would probably be thinking at this juncture something along the lines of "Yeah? So?" And I understand that. But speaking as someone who has for the last fourteen years or so steadfastly maintained a dislike for pretty much anything strongly associated with frilliness or femininity, the fact that I'm pretty upset over missing out on this one blindingly bright pink baggy silk jacket at the thrift store is more than a little weird for me.

Second, this (not the "pink" thing, but another weirdity) has been something I've recognized as an issue for a long time, but have never (that I remember) been able to put my finger on until last night: I am embarrassed about having emotions. Obviously, logically, I know that pretty much everyone has emotions, and therefore it is safe to assume that everyone I meet, should they assume anything about me, safely and rightly assumes that I also have emotions. But still, for example, I sometimes get this twinge of embarrassment when I'm affectionate toward David in public, especially if there's someone else around that I know. And it is not even a little bit about David-- it is about me being ashamed to admit that I have romantic feelings for another human. You know what's one of the things that worries me most about being married someday? I worry about getting pregnant. Right now you're probably thinking that I don't want kids, or if you know me a little better, that I am terrified to the point of feeling ill when I think too closely about childbirth. (Despite the fact that I want to have kids, I am that terrified sometimes.) Those aren't the reasons. Here is the reason: should I become pregnant, people will know how that happened. Specifically, people would know that I was the sort of person that has sex. Ignoring the verb tense issues in that sentence... I am a freak.

The Ropes

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope trying to figure out what I really want in life and at the same time trying to pretend like I'm a non-sociopathic, functioning adult member of society. Or maybe several tightropes.

Rope 1: David. Not at all to suggest that he isn't fantastic--only to suggest that I am an emotional moron, and allowing myself to feel and think whatever things I would normally feel and think, without banishing uncomfortable items or forcing other items into view (is the only way I will ever have any hope of knowing what I want ever, and also)is not particularly easy for me, especially when I am also trying to not be a complete bitch.

Rope 2: Living arrangements. Currently I am living with my parents again--super cool. Again, not to suggest that my parents are not super cool; rather to suggest that living, at 23, with the people who raised you, is not always simple. And my uncle (a very good guy, actually, but not very timely, but yes very underpriced for family so I shouldn't complain at all) has had my car for four or five months, so I share with my really wonderful, but MUST PARTICIPATE IN EVERYTHING sister. And I have my own stuff to take care of (needs and wants), but living in a group dwelling requires things like cleaning up my own and other people's messes. Especially since my mother and sister seem to tend to look to me as their organizational savior when I am home, thanks to my occasional bursts of Cannot Stand This Mess. This opinion of theirs stands despite the fact that my normal mode of operation is "What mess? Leave me alone, I am reading. And later when you would like me to help, I will be out of town."

Rope 3: Money. No excuses here--money is absolutely a bitch and I am not a big fan. Probably this is because I am in possession of very little of it, and I would like to have a lot of it, only without working very much. It's an issue. But I've just been hired to do exciting science experiments with the aim of convincing kids that science is awesome (which it of course IS), so that's good. It's only part time though, duh, so I'll still need to find another gig.

And finally (?), Rope 4: Ignorance. I majored in English, without particularly wanting to teach English. Also, I didn't work for the school paper ever at all. Even given the fact that I'll probably apply to go teach ESL in South Korea, this wasn't the best plan, and I should probably go to grad school. The problems here are A)I cannot afford grad school at the moment, and I don't really want to add any more loans right now to the $10,000 or so that I'm still paying off, and B) I cannot decide what to go to grad school for. Majors in consideration are Creative Writing (terminal degree makes that somewhat less useless, actually); Anthropology; Sociology; some sort of physical therapy--not Physical Therapy I mean, but massage therapy or chiropractic something or another similar thing; some sort of emotional/mental therapy, like Art or Recreational therapy, or plain old Psychology or Psychiatry; Environmental Studies type things. If I think for a few more minutes I'll probably come up with another handful. Best to stop here. Problem(s) illustrated, anyway.