I Don’t Want to Live in This World

I hate this world that I’ve created.

I hate that I moved across the country with big dreams, none of them being fulfilled.  They’ve been destroyed so much that I’ve let them go altogether.  I don’t even write anymore.  I probably don’t even exist anymore.

I hate that I moved to the south and have encountered far more entitled people than I ever did living in a resort town.  I hate that I feel that I can do nothing right.  I hate that I don’t have anyone to depend on, so I’ve learned to depend on myself.  I hate that my heart aches for a church like the one I left behind.  I  hate that I can’t find that here.  I hate that every promotion brings more misery, instead of confidence.  I hate that I complain so often.  I hate that I’m depressed.

I miss my home.  I miss my family.  I miss my friends.  I miss my mom.  If I had known that moving here would mean losing her, I never would have come.  I miss that she made me empowered.  I wish that I had appreciated it while she was around.

I don’t want to be alive in this world anymore.  I know it’s supposed to get better.  I know it always has gotten better.  But I don’t like the in between.  I don’t like that I’m in the in between again.  I don’t like that I’ve gotten so lost, that I’ve disappeared completely.

Being Thankful in These Trying Times

I usually write some post about Thanksgiving and what I’m thankful for, but I’ve had no time or energy to write lately.  This is a season of thankfulness, but I’m not sure that I’ve felt very thankful.  Sometimes I feel so pessimistic that I forget that my life has been far more privileged than that of a lot of people.  I have a family that loves me.  A boyfriend that makes me smile a lot.  A job with benefits and great coworkers.  I have my own place and a really cute dog.  I have a car that I don’t have to make payments on.  And for the most part, I’m healthy, except for the current moment, because Bobby gave me his cold.

And maybe I find these times trying because I don’t have the community or church that I had back home.  And I thought I didn’t have community there, when I did.  Life never really turns out the way you expect it to.  Thus, I complain too much.  I complain, and I don’t make enough effort to make things better, because I’m too tired or too lazy or just too… too much myself.

So I had a meeting with someone from the counseling department to get my masters in counseling at UNA.  And it seems like a real possibility.  So maybe I should be thankful that I moved to a college town, and even though I really want to move out of it sometimes, Florence is not a bad place.

People, be thankful.  You’re not starving.  You’re not a victim of genocide.  You have a roof over your head.  And things can always get better.

To Myself

I can’t remember the last time I really got to relax.  I can’t remember the last time I got be alone and think and work and write.  Which is why I feel almost nonexistent.  I’m always working.  I’m always with someone.   There’s always something else that has to be done.  Why don’t we cherish things when we have them?

My heart is not broken, but at the same time, it is.  I miss home the most in the summer, when it’s so hot here that I can hardly breathe.  All you have to do is exist and you’re sweating.  And the rain does nothing to cool the land.  I miss my dad and my brother and my best friend.  I miss home cooked meals and long drives and being allowed to spend the day in bed.  I miss my mom.  You never quite learn to appreciate things until they’re gone.

This life is not what I thought it would be.  But then again, life never is.  It’s full of surprises, good and bad.  I used to call myself a writer, but I don’t think I can say that anymore.  I’m not even trying anymore.  Any talent that I may have once have has disappeared in the busyness of work, and relationship, and life.

I don’t know what I want.  And I don’t know why I complain so much.  As humans, I guess that we are never quite content.  I miss the days when I would sit in silence and meditation, but I live as though there’s no time for that anymore.  I can’t make the days grow any longer.

As I write this, I know I still need to go buy groceries.  I still need to clean my apartment.  I still need to do so many things that won’t get done if I’m not the one to do them.  Because I am an adult.  Adulthood snuck up on me.  It probably sneaks up on all of us.  Even though we spend our childhood chasing adulthood.  How foolish are we to want this freedom that isn’t really freedom at all.

Christmas (A Poem)

Christmas.
Family.
When the air is filled with cheer
A time you want your loved ones near

Christmas.
A time we’re prone to forget
Wrapped up in the mess of present wrapping
Though its reason is all about the presence

Christmas.
A time for remembering
A God most powerful, became so humble
A child in a stable, came to save mankind

Christmas.
Unwrap new beginnings
It doesn’t matter what your tree looks like
There wasn’t even a tree at the original

Christmas.
Wisemen, shepherds, nativity.
So much more, though our small minds might make it less
King, creator, Lord of our hearts

Christmas.
A time to be found
Don’t get lost in this
Find time to be merry

Christmas.
Let your heart be warmed
No matter how cold it may or may not be outside
It was never about the weather anyway

Christmas.
Remember.
Be humbled and bring praise
Its every reason is so you could be saved

Christmas.

On Santa and Christmas Traditions

Working in customer service has taught me that people get meaner during the holidays.

I’m almost positive that I’ve never taken a picture with Santa.  My parents didn’t really teach the Santa thing.  I don’t remember ever really believing, but maybe I stopped before my memories began.  I vaguely remember logical conversations with my dad about how Santa wouldn’t fit down our chimney, but I’m pretty sure I knew it was always pretty much a fairy tale.
We focused more on the original Christmas story.  Yes, we did the tree for most of my life, but we opened at least one gift on Christmas Eve, and as my brother and I got older, we started to follow my dad’s family tradition of opening all the gifts on Christmas Eve, which pretty much takes Santa out of the equation entirely.
Sometimes my mom would write “from Santa” on certain gifts, but we always knew it was from her, plus, those gifts were under the tree days, if not a couple weeks, before Christmas.  Thus, it was really hard to actually believe in Santa.  And that’s okay.  I don’t really feel like I missed out.

Every year since I can remember, apart from the random years we were spending the holidays out of town, my family has gone to a Christmas Eve service at the church I grew up in.  Even after I moved away and my parents stopped going to that church, we still went to the service.  It was tradition.  Afterward, my parents would drive around and look at Christmas lights.  As I got older, I kinda got over that tradition, and started going home to wait for them.
The four of us would gather in the living room and usually eat a dessert or something and then give gifts.  It was nice.  It was pretty anticlimactic.
This year, I’ll be away from family for the first time.  I’m okay with it, I’m not complaining.  It’s just different, like almost every aspect of my life in the south.  I was expecting to work on Christmas, like I usually do, but this year I have it off.  So I’m going to cook and spend the evening with one of my favorite people.  I’m going to drink champagne.  Maybe I’ll start a new tradition.

 

Blogging Everyday in July|Delirious 40hr Work Week

I have an interesting coworker who is interesting (I phrased that that way on purpose, mom).  He is interesting and he says interesting things and he thinks interesting things, and I think it’s because he’s a deep thinker.  He also asks me deep questions.  And I try to get give him well thought out answers.  Also, right now, I’m deliriously tired, so if none of this makes sense, that is why.  It’s like Sara on drugs. Seriously, go watch my snap chat story.  Just kidding, I’m rambling because I’m tired.

Anyway, the interesting coworker gave me the idea to write about the 40 hour work week.  We had a conversation about how it’s no longer sustainable.  One family member used to be able to work 40 hours a week and take care of his family.  Now, I’m the kind of person who enjoys being able to work, so if I get married I expect us both to work.  |
My coworker believes the 40 hour work week has been turned into something to keep creatives from being able to do what they love outside of work, because they’re too tired.  Which might be true.  But I like to find jobs that I like.  However, I currently am not in love with one of my jobs.  And I work 60 hours a week and barely make it.  And I’m delirious.  If I say anything else it will be unintelligible.

Maybe I’ve made a mistake.  Maybe I’ve gotten in over my head.
I’m done with being cut off or cut out.  I’m done with being misunderstood.  I don’t follow pop culture or church culture or people who might have something good to say.  I know who I follow and what I follow.  I’m not trying to be a constantly negative person, it just feels wrong in my heart when something gets over spiritualized.

I’m not making sense.  And I might never make sense again.  I might never do anything again.

Blogging Everyday in July|Through Unreal Eyes

She took me out of the car today, finally.  The heat in this new place is unreal, I felt like she was trying to bake me by making me live in there.

She put me on this red couch as if I was part of the decor, then left me there.  After she went outside, I got to take in my new surroundings.  The couch was red, the carpet brown, the space around me empty.
I’d been living in that car since February, in a place where there was snow.  I remember her getting into the car and hugging me as she cried; that was how we met.  She never did give me a name though.
A few weeks ago she found me and hugged me again, then carried me out to her friends, who christened me Tito.  It was nice to finally know who I was.

Finally I heard her return.  She rushed into the kitchen and started cooking, then rushed around the house, trying to grab as many personal belongings a she could, as if to hide her very presence in this place.  But I got to stay, as if I belonged.  Thankful that she’s not embarrassed to be seen with me.
It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door and more and more people started to arrive.  They talked about tacos and music and someone picked me up.  My new friend with the blonde hair!  I think they call him Bobby.  I think he loves me the most.   He named me.  He calls me Tito the Potito.  It’s a name as cute as I am.  They like to pass me around to hug me, because apparently my hugs are some kind of magic.
The set me down and made plates.  Everyone had tacos except me, momentarily forgotten.

Eventually they had their fill and the music started.  Fun music, everyone together.  I was passed around like a joint that no one was smoking.  I was overwhelmed, needing to hide myself.
I tucked myself away, into a ball, when someone yelled “Hot potito!”  Suddenly I was flying through the air.  They tossed me back and forth until they grew bored of this new game.  I was happy to be included, but terrified that I was about to die.  I wonder if this is how they treat all their new friends.

The music was good, the laughter loud, joy emanating from the room we all sat in.  I could sense a real community, a new family forming.  I wanted this to be my home.  I think maybe it is now.

My friend, Jasper, got to be a part of the party too.  The blonde one, Bobby, kept trying to make Jasper dance.  Jasper’s not good at talking about his anxiety and was sure he was going to pass out the whole night.  But he held it together.  Even after they messed with his sweater.  He knows  it’s not made for him, but he’s had it too long to care.
Jasper is my family, the way all these strangers are the girl’s family now.  I hope she feels home here too.