1.132 – Turmoil

The art slips away from me…a mind boggled with an abundance of questions. Stories and ideas sit on the back burner when, in all actuality, they should be at the forefront. Reflecting on life is a reminder of a failed one…what could not be saved is what leads me to this tailspin of uncertainty.

Don’t let anyone fool you; divorce takes two people. I swallow the pill in knowing that I wasn’t my best to make my marriage work…I wasn’t strong enough to encourage it to evolve instead of perish. And in the aftermath of realizing that…I sit here as a broken woman. I am broken because I was apart of something that could not last, could not beat the odds. I am broken because I am faced with making even more difficult decisions. I am broken because I could not guarantee my son a unified front.

My spirit is ready to make the move, to return to my birthplace, to start my life anew, to create a life I want to live. My mind is fogged with the concern for others, for the connections that may suffer if things don’t go as planned, for the worry that I am…yet again…not making the right decision. My heart breaks because, as much as I want to be fair…I can’t imagine being apart from my son for a day…a single day…that far apart.

This whole scenario makes me want to break things and spit and curse and banish all smiling faces. If I was a man and I was offered a job far away…the move would make sense. It would seem justified. I’m doing what needs to be done to provide. But I’m a woman. I’m a mother. I can’t give my child up…even for three month periods. What kind of person am I?

Is the opportunity to make more money and be closer to a family source a justified reason to sacrifice six months of the year with my child? Shouldn’t I be able to find a way to be happy and accomplished exactly where I am? What does it say about me if I can’t? Do I stay where I am for the sake of my son if it means I am not happy as an individual?

I’m crushed. Because I feel like there is no middle ground. I’m either selfish or settling to remain as I am. This person I despise. So many would say that my child should be enough. Is there something wrong with me if I want…more? And I feel like the biggest piece of shit on the face of the earth for writing that last sentence. But I want to be more so I can give more. Even still…it feels wrong to feel.

I don’t think I’m strong enough to make this decision. But by not making a decision…haven’t I already decided? I am broken and it is taking all of the fight left in me to not curl up in a ball and hope for the moment when I whither away. In this case, there is no good decision. And I don’t know if I can live with that.

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1.117 – I Quit

On my way home from work, I got to thinking about my writing.

Where the hell is this going? Is it going anywhere at all?

The answers are simple: I don’t know and no. That being said, I start reflecting on why the hell nothing is going nowhere. And I reflect on my own bitter, emotional moment of the day.

It sucks when you feel like people see you for your negative attributes. I float in the ongoing punchline of me being the mean girl. Maybe its’ funny. Shit, maybe it’s true. But I really don’t want to be the mean girl. I’m just extremely sarcastic and extremely…blunt at times. Label it rude, obnoxious, neurotic. Maybe I’m making up for years of living in the damned shadows…I don’t know.

I’m probably all of those negative things and more. But I’d like to be better. My writing is nothing but I’d like it to be more. I’d like to know more than five people are reading this damned blog. I’d like to see my writing flourish into something worth sharing. I’d like to be considered a talent, a person worth knowing, something more than a late night secret friend. Yeah, I said it. Because I know that’s what I am to people. Someone worth knowing in the daytime at a distance and someone worth talking to late at night when no one else is available. My writing is what people read because…well fuck if I know why people read any of this. It’s about the same as me wondering why the hell people waste their time…AND MINE…talking to me.

It’s all a crock, really. It’s all made up. It’s all a badly written work of fiction. It’s all maybes and what-ifs, coulda woulda shouldas and false precedents.

I want to edit Dream Catchers. That will probably never happen. I want to complete Euphoric Damnation…which is on an indefinite pause because the concept sounded good about 5 months ago but now just seems to be a stupid ass story. I want to write a trilogy called Windows – one story told from his perspective, one from her perspective and the final one being the truth. I want to write a humor piece – one story done in several genre formats. I want to re-write Lullaby – a play set in in the voice of suicide and the victim. I want to write Killing Off Allison. I want to compile my poetry and finish The Dark Room. I want, I want, I want…to write, to write, to write…

BUT

I wont do any of it. Because I’m one of those fucking people. I’m all talk. Because attempting at putting these ideas to paper will force me to realize that I’m a fake. I’m no fucking writer. I’m just one of those people who spews out ideas. And the majority of them suck ass.

I want people to think better of me. I want to be valued for what’s in this mind of mine. I want there to be a reason I am the way I am. I thought writing was my justification. But maybe…no, I’m pretty sure…there is no justification. I’m just not what I thought I was. I’m nobody…babbling on about nothing. I’m a con artist – making you believe I’m strong, smart, pretty, artistic, confidant, secure. But I am none of those things. I am a weakling, screaming for acceptance at the top of my lungs. The problem is…no one seems to hear me. Or maybe they do. Which is by far the worst of fates.

Maybe this is just a majorly self-deprecating emo moment. But for the first time in 20 years, I’m almost certain it’s time to give this shit up. My fear of rejection obviously outweighs my desire to live the dream. Story of my fucking life. The self doubt is debilitating. And I’m over feeling like a crippled woman, friend, artist. I just want to fade into the backdrop and pretend it never mattered.

My love affair with writing is over.

That’s it. I quit. I’m moving on. (Thanks Sam Cooke).

1.89 – Jagged Pills

2012 is about swallowing the pill. Self-evaluation. Growth. Progress. No matter how bitter the pill tastes.

I generally don’t need anyone to impose harm or judgement upon me. I have a condition, which does that all too well. It’s called self-sabotage. It is a sickness that tears me from potential happiness, and that growth I profess so much to want.

Nothing is off limits. Nothing is safe from the plague. It usually starts with small things and grows swiftly to engulf those things that are near and dear to my heart. They never intended to…he must be lying…he favors the other one…why bother, nothing will make it look better…this is not your year…prepare to be alone…they didn’t because they really don’t…it’s all just a game…there’s nothing special about you…why would anyone bother…it’s not that good anyway…your time is running out…he’ll see you for what you are soon enough…

It’s a soft voice in the back of my head, much like my own but hateful. To me. To the world. It’s a drop in the pit of my stomach, a racing of my heart when I realize nothing is what I thought it was. It tells me to push everything away. Because, then, it will have been my choice versus the alternative. That which burns the soul.

And I struggle. Because I want to believe that there is no truth to it. They do want me to succeed. He’s telling the truth. He loves me equally. It looks just fine. This is my year. There is someone out there who wants me for ME. They really do care. It’s not a game at all. I am special. Someone doesn’t see me as a bother. It’s quite good for a first. He isn’t going to stop seeing me as a good person. He will know my heart is good.

I want to believe that. I want something to snap me out of the self-deprecation. I want something to click. To show me something brighter. Possibility. Growth. Progress. Worth.

She’s just a writer writing about her life. She’s just a girl sitting in her apartment writing about nothing. Synonymous.