Complacency

I feel bored and overwhelmed at the same time.  I forget sometimes that I moved across the country and established a life here all on my own.  I think I forget this because I’m not satisfied and I miss home.

I had a dream the other night that I was trying to get my old job back in Mammoth.  I dreamed that I moved Bobby out there and we were trying to figure out a way to afford a big enough place for his studio.  But that was just a dream.  I have no plans to move back to Mammoth, and in all reality, I would probably feel almost as complacent there.  The only difference is that I would have a community that I some how took for granted when I lived there.

I’m looking for a new job.  Most people know this, but I guess it’s time to make it public.  I’ve been depressed where I’m at for some time now and I haven’t found a satisfactory way to make myself happier there.  I haven’t gotten any bites anywhere else yet though.  I feel so confused as to where my path is right now, but if I look back to my past, things have always worked out the way their supposed to.  So I have to believe that things will work out again.

I’m trying to get myself used to school again.  It’s hard and not hard at the same time.  I just haven’t retrained myself to set aside time in the right way.  I feel like I used to have far more time on my hands.  Where do all the hours go?
And I have to do this group project with no information, so that’s not stressing me out at all.

I decided to go back to therapy.  I’ve had exactly one session.  But how can I be a licensed therapist if I can’t even take care of myself?

I’m doing my best.  And my best probably looks pretty good to a lot of people.  But it feels like it’s not enough a lot of the time.  But I guess that’s what depression is.

Hello my old friend.

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.

Love is Scary

Valentine’s Day was last week.  I don’t know much about the origin of Valentine’s Day, and I’ve never really fully partaken in the holiday, because it’s become a hallmark holiday to sell merchandise and make single people feel lonely.  However, this year was my first year as part of a real couple on Valentine’s Day.  Not that I find the holiday important, but it has gotten me thinking.

How does one know that they will love someone forever?  How do we trust that our partner will love us forever?  What is forever?  Love is about trust.  Love is about loyalty.  Love is a choice.  I’m in a relationship that I could perceive lasting forever.  I have zero desire for it to end.  It’s just sometimes hard to wrap my head around someone wanting to be with me forever.  People are constantly changing and evolving.  But my parents were together 43 years and would have been together another thousand if possible.  I want that.  Maybe I have that.  Giving your heart to someone is just a little terrifying.

But is it the same with God’s love?  Because he is love and will love me forever.  His love is not dependent on whether we’re in the same place or like the same things.  It just is.  As long as I can trust that, nothing else really matters, I guess.

So what if love is scary?  It just might be worth it.  God’s love brought me all the way across the country, didn’t it?  And there are probably a thousand more adventures to be had.

The Case of the “I Don’t Matter”s

I’m experiencing an increasing case of the “I don’t matter”s.  So much that it’d probably be easier to disappear.  And I don’t need people to try harder or act smarter or to learn to remember.  Because it’s me.

And it makes me think.  Maybe no one really matters.  I mean, people matter to each other, and it’s my fault that I have no one.  I’ve never really learned to have anyone.  But in the largest meaning of the word, no one matters.  We are all just blips.  Time keeps going, and the longer time gets, the smaller chance our existence will impact anything.

I feel really abandoned, but I’m the one who abandons.  I’m the one who packs up and moves away.  I’m the one who doesn’t stay in touch.  I’m the heart breaker with a broken heart.

I went to a friend’s family’s thanksgiving.  I traveled to be there.  On the way home, I realized it probably would have been better for everyone if I hadn’t gone.  My being there changed nothing.  I was just overwhelmed.  Because I don’t like lots of new people.  I don’t like feeling stuck.  I’m not good at socializing.  Why do I think that because there is a holiday, I need to spend it somewhere, when I’d be happier at home?  I don’t matter.

I entered into something I didn’t mean to enter into.  But it wouldn’t matter if I was here or not.  They can argue over everything without me anyway.  And there would probably be fewer arguments if I didn’t show up, because I’m too liberal, apparently.  Anything I have to say just gets interrupted and forgotten.  I don’t matter.

And when people say that nothing is going to change, it always changes.  When they say you won’t get dropped, they’ll have excuses for when you do.  Because it’s impossible to articulate anything real at all.

I feel alone.  But I feel alone because I don’t know how to express what is inside of me.  I don’t know how to make anyone understand this grief that has built up.  I don’t know how to be anyone else.  I don’t matter.

When Getting Out of Bed is Hard

I never learned how to reach out.  So everything seems inappropriate and everything becomes uncomfortable and needing anything seems like an obsession.  I make mistakes.  I’ve made them a thousand times, and it’s different every time, but as I become older it’s almost as if things are more and more detrimental.  It’s so much easier to turn to the things that will eventually push you over the edge than it is to run to the one thing that might make this all okay again.

I’ve been analyzing again.  But this time I have something to analyze.  Grief has stages.  Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.  I don’t know what stage I’m in.  I know that I don’t want to talk about it.  Not with most people.  Not most of the time.  If you get to be that person, or one of those people, then I’m sorry.  But for everyone else.  I’m sick of it.  I’m sick of people saying that what I do or what I say is okay.  It’s bullshit.  This is all bullshit.
I’m not even sorry.  I’m not even sorry that I push everyone away and then feel abandoned.  Because I’ve done it my whole freaking life.  It’s what I’m best at.

I don’t even care right now.  I don’t want to care.  I want to do whatever I want.  I want to be reckless.  I used to be reckless.  But there will always be something tethering me to the earth, keeping me from being fully free like that.

I’m not an alcoholic.  I don’t really have an addictive nature.  But I wish I was.  I wish there was a reason that getting out of bed didn’t seem worth it.  A reason that was more than a state of mind.

I’m really messed up.  But only right now.  I’m really not okay, even when I am okay.  And no, I don’t want to talk about it.

I Don’t Know What Should Be Said

No one tells you what it’s like to lose your mother at 24 when you’re across the country and are sure she isn’t dying.  No one tells you how to act.  No one tells you what you’re supposed to say.  And maybe they don’t know.

How long until you’re supposed to be okay again?  Because life goes on.  My life goes on.  I have to go to work.  I have to see people.  I have to write.  And really, I am okay.  As okay as I can be.  But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I’m not a talker, I’m a writer; yet no one seems to understand that.

Stop asking me how I am, because I won’t have an answer.  I don’t know.  I won’t know.  Any answer will seem like a lie.

All I can say is: don’t take life for granted.  Because now, if I ever fall in love and get married, my mother won’t be there to argue with me over details.  She won’t be there to tell me how great he is, or how I could do better.
I’ll never be able to bring a guy home to her.  And she’ll never get to visit my home here, in the south.
She’ll never get to read my first piece of published work, that I just got delivered to me.  She won’t get to point out all the typos, because there’s a lot, but it’s not my book, so that’s okay.  She won’t get to read anything else I publish either.  My mother will never know me as a professional.

And there a lot of things I could say.  There a lot more things that I meant to say.  A lot more things I meant to write.  Because I’ve been meaning to post this for at least a week now.  And it’s not for lack of strength.  It’s not for any reason other than all of the thoughts that I feel might be caving in on me.  There are too many.  I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know what should be said.

 

A Mess Worth Loving

I just saw the move Suicide Squad.  And this blog is not about that.  But it made me think.  There are so many psychological things going on in that movie.  I think that’s how I can tell good screen writing.  It’s  a mess.  There are so many levels in the simplicity of the story.
I just rewatched Avatar: The Last Airbender series.  That’s another show with so much psychology.  Everyone is a mess.  Everyone has a dynamic.  It isn’t just good over evil.  It’s more than that.

I love messes.  It’s probably because I’m a mess.  I’m a psychological mess.  I live in organized chaos.  And I can hate it, hate me, keep trying to change myself, or I can accept myself.  Just like I’ve accepted every mess of a person that has walked into my life.  And we can’t deny that we all have a little mess in us.

I have a talent for finding broken people, the messes.  It’s like I have a mess magnet in my heart.  And my heart loves them loves them loves them.  I don’t even want to fix them, I just want them to be accepted.  I crave acceptance and I try to hand it out like candy at a small town parade.  I would be lying if this acceptance has not hurt me in past, but it’s still all I know how to do.  I don’t want anyone to feel the hate that souls, my soul, are so capable of churning up.  Hate will never make the world a better place.  Who cares about disagreements?  Hate will never change anyone into who you want them to be.  Love might.  Acceptance might.  And if it doesn’t, it won’t matter, because love always wins.

It’s so funny to me that this is my philosophy on life, when I am so quick to turn it around on my own self, my own people, my background, my roots, where I came from.  I get so angry at Christians because in my eyes, I still expect them to judge me.  I still see the judgement toward those who have chosen a different lifestyle.  I still hear the judgement in their voices when political disagreements become apparent.  But aren’t we supposed to be Christlike?  Aren’t we supposed to be loving, just like the God that we say we follow, that we say created us to love?

I want to accept.  While I expect to be unaccepted.  In every walk.  When people get excited that I decide to show up somewhere my mind is blown.  I don’t expect it.  It almost makes me want to leave.  Because I’m a psychological mess that loves psychological messes.  As soon as I hear your brokenness, your struggle, your story, I’m likely to fall into your soul.  I’m likely to want you by my side, in my heart, near me, with me.
And I know it’s time that I take a step back.

Today I took a step in a different direction.  I forgot my notebook when I went to church, so I couldn’t write, which is my protection, I think.  Yes, it is my identity, but I’m vulnerable without it.
When the music started playing, it suddenly occurred to me to join my friends on the floor, rather than staying in my seat.  I haven’t been that person in years.  Because of my fear.  I’m constantly expecting to be watched.  Because I don’t dance.  I don’t jump around.  And when I lose myself, I’m more likely to be still than I am to be some spiritual craziness.  I’m more likely to be like Mary, lost at Christ’s feet, than I am to be like David, who danced before the Lord.  I always expect judgement in that.  But it is my reality.  Stop judging me for my reality.  Or maybe you’re not.  Or maybe I don’t care anymore.