I worry about the choices I have made in my life- the ones I have not made perhaps even more.
Tonight, I worry that I am not good enough at anything, that I never will be, because I am drawn only to my own selfish an unrealistic wishes. Wishes that have been constructed specifically to be unattainable, something to always strive for with no hope or risk of ever achieving. At least, that is what I fear I have done.
Tonight, I worry that what I believe I want is exactly what I can not have, and I have chosen these wants because of a deep-seated fear that I am not worthy of having my wishes fulfilled. That, in fact, it is my own belief that I am not worthy that has precluded me from ever reaching my goals. I have no strength to give, I have no power to lend, no gift to exchange with the world to have my strongest dreams come true, because in reality, my strongest dream is to never have what I want.
A storm is slowly making it's loud, lonely, illuminated way past my window. The strong winds will leave a wake of debris to clean away come morning, and the charged air will cause more damage than we have seen this season. I believe that art imitates emotion- perhaps emotion imitates nature. I can hope for now that is the truth, and that with the morning sun will come a lightening of my mood. Somehow, I doubt it.
I wonder at my own uselessness, glad to see my life through brighter days than those that have come before. I can not imagine what would become of me in darker times.
I wonder if my attraction to study is nothing more an a vain attempt to find another time, another place, another people so disconnected from the world, so angry, sad, and useless- to find the proof that I am not outside human nature, that I am redeemable. I fear throwing myself into my study only to be proven wrong. I fear for the world should I be right.
I fear never trying at all.
Read More...
Friday, August 6, 2010
Five Years
People always ask
Where do you see yourself in five years?
I don't know why that's the magic time frame, but it certainly seems to be. Everything up to that is thought of as 'preplanning', eventually added up to the ultimate goal at five years. Where do you see your self in 3 months? A year? Five years? Anything more than that seems foolish.
If you asked me when I was 20 where I saw myself at 25 my answer would have been so off the mark it's not even funny. God, the things I had planned. A bachelor's in creative writing and philosophy. A master's in Theology, Philosophy, and/or Theater. A job in theater, moving the world through spoken word- teaching and learning and living through performance. A portfolio full of prose and poems and plays and maybe a novella. Resume full of bit parts, community theater, failed experiments and volunteering. Friends I never talked to, acquaintances who would say- voices full of pity- "she thinks she's going to change the world", co-workers who would say "we're changing the world and they'll probably never notice". A shitty apartment in a worse part of The City. No license. What sister? Oh, yeah, her. I think she's graduating soon, maybe I'll have time to call next week. And I still would have been happy. Well, maybe not. Perhaps lonely but sill content.
I have experiences now I never would have, had my life gone as I once dreamed. There are things I wish I could forget, but nothing I regret. I wouldn't change even one heartbreaking moment. I try not to let fear rule my life, and I often fail, anger later burning through my chest. Why did I do that? Why didn't I do this? But in this one way, I am glad to fall to fear. I fear what I would not know without each and every moment that has led me here. To this moment. To this plan.
It's not so different than the first, but the changes are profound. Where do I see myself in three months? A year? Five years? A woman who has helped another find herself, mold herself into my favorite person in the world. A license, a car. The same car. A shitty apartment in a worse part of a city. Friends I couldn't live without, acquaintances who say- voices full of pity- "she thinks she's going to change the world", co-workers who say "we're changing the world and they'll probably never notice". A portfolio full of prose and poems and plays and maybe a novella. Resume full of volunteering and teaching and changing and being changed. A job. Changing the world through living- teaching and learning and performing through passion. A piece of paper- maybe two, hell, maybe three- that proves nothing but that I know how to work a system, a life that proves I know myself, my passions, my world.
I've recently been called a cynic and an idealist. I can believe both at this moment. I used to take pride in being a walking contradiction. I know myself much better now, and while I still am in many cases contradictory with the world, my family, my friends, even myself, I am not ready to submit to the weight of that contradiction. If a cynic is just a disappointed idealist, then I know what I must do.
So, the plan. Where do I see myself in three months? With a job. A part time job, probably in retail, hopefully somewhere I don't mind being. A place I would use the employee discount at least. Getting ready to make the first payment on a full list of classes at the cc. Still living with my father.
And in a year? Well, we'll skip to 'a year and bit, ok closer to two years' instead. Getting ready to transfer to a 4-year to finish off that little piece of paper that people erroneously believe says I am not an idiot. Hopefully a TESOL Certificate. Possibly still working part time. Possibly not at the same retail shop, discount or no. Maybe even volunteering for something I care about- leaning toward tutoring, ESL, and literacy, though other things are still very muchly so in the running. Stilling living with my father. Watching my sister graduate high school. Moving her off to college. Freaking out about being bored and lonely and scared shitless for her to Cassi and Pat and Francine and Tony and Virginia and Meghan and anyone else who will listen.
And in five years? Using that TESOL cert in another country. Hopefully one with some studies or digs or Master's programs that I'd like to get into. I figure it's got to be easier to get in if I'm already there. At least, I hope so. o_0 A woman who has helped another find herself, mold herself into my favorite person in the world. A life that proves I know myself, my passions, my world.
It's a loose plan, but so far, I like it. Read More...
Where do you see yourself in five years?
I don't know why that's the magic time frame, but it certainly seems to be. Everything up to that is thought of as 'preplanning', eventually added up to the ultimate goal at five years. Where do you see your self in 3 months? A year? Five years? Anything more than that seems foolish.
If you asked me when I was 20 where I saw myself at 25 my answer would have been so off the mark it's not even funny. God, the things I had planned. A bachelor's in creative writing and philosophy. A master's in Theology, Philosophy, and/or Theater. A job in theater, moving the world through spoken word- teaching and learning and living through performance. A portfolio full of prose and poems and plays and maybe a novella. Resume full of bit parts, community theater, failed experiments and volunteering. Friends I never talked to, acquaintances who would say- voices full of pity- "she thinks she's going to change the world", co-workers who would say "we're changing the world and they'll probably never notice". A shitty apartment in a worse part of The City. No license. What sister? Oh, yeah, her. I think she's graduating soon, maybe I'll have time to call next week. And I still would have been happy. Well, maybe not. Perhaps lonely but sill content.
I have experiences now I never would have, had my life gone as I once dreamed. There are things I wish I could forget, but nothing I regret. I wouldn't change even one heartbreaking moment. I try not to let fear rule my life, and I often fail, anger later burning through my chest. Why did I do that? Why didn't I do this? But in this one way, I am glad to fall to fear. I fear what I would not know without each and every moment that has led me here. To this moment. To this plan.
It's not so different than the first, but the changes are profound. Where do I see myself in three months? A year? Five years? A woman who has helped another find herself, mold herself into my favorite person in the world. A license, a car. The same car. A shitty apartment in a worse part of a city. Friends I couldn't live without, acquaintances who say- voices full of pity- "she thinks she's going to change the world", co-workers who say "we're changing the world and they'll probably never notice". A portfolio full of prose and poems and plays and maybe a novella. Resume full of volunteering and teaching and changing and being changed. A job. Changing the world through living- teaching and learning and performing through passion. A piece of paper- maybe two, hell, maybe three- that proves nothing but that I know how to work a system, a life that proves I know myself, my passions, my world.
I've recently been called a cynic and an idealist. I can believe both at this moment. I used to take pride in being a walking contradiction. I know myself much better now, and while I still am in many cases contradictory with the world, my family, my friends, even myself, I am not ready to submit to the weight of that contradiction. If a cynic is just a disappointed idealist, then I know what I must do.
So, the plan. Where do I see myself in three months? With a job. A part time job, probably in retail, hopefully somewhere I don't mind being. A place I would use the employee discount at least. Getting ready to make the first payment on a full list of classes at the cc. Still living with my father.
And in a year? Well, we'll skip to 'a year and bit, ok closer to two years' instead. Getting ready to transfer to a 4-year to finish off that little piece of paper that people erroneously believe says I am not an idiot. Hopefully a TESOL Certificate. Possibly still working part time. Possibly not at the same retail shop, discount or no. Maybe even volunteering for something I care about- leaning toward tutoring, ESL, and literacy, though other things are still very muchly so in the running. Stilling living with my father. Watching my sister graduate high school. Moving her off to college. Freaking out about being bored and lonely and scared shitless for her to Cassi and Pat and Francine and Tony and Virginia and Meghan and anyone else who will listen.
And in five years? Using that TESOL cert in another country. Hopefully one with some studies or digs or Master's programs that I'd like to get into. I figure it's got to be easier to get in if I'm already there. At least, I hope so. o_0 A woman who has helped another find herself, mold herself into my favorite person in the world. A life that proves I know myself, my passions, my world.
It's a loose plan, but so far, I like it. Read More...
Sunday, August 1, 2010
So, to be honest...
Posting here actually helped me feel a little better. I don't know exactly how it works, doesn't make any logical sense to me, but I guess psychology works for me, too. I'm always spouting things at the rest of the world that while I do believe for others, I don't believe for myself. In this case: sometimes you just need to get things out, even if no one else knows it.
I tell people this all the time. People who have a hard time expressing themselves, people who feel no one is listening, people who just want to forget. I tell them that they'll explode without release, that the only one who needs to hear is themselves, that they'll never forget but maybe they can let go, and even if there is no one to send a letter to putting the the words to paper in itself can be freeing. And I do believe that, I've seen it a million times it seems. I just never though it would work so well for me.
And I still feel... well, everything I felt earlier this week, but somehow it's more manageable, so I guess it's working.
I'll be honest, my biggest fear is that it would make me feel more lonely. I've been very lonely recently. It happens sometimes- more often than I will generally admit to, really. More than that, I feel very alone. You know that cliche of being alone in a crowded room? Yeah, not like that. But even the short reprieve I seem to feel when around others is just a distraction.
It's not often, but I do get painfully frustrated with my sex life. Trust me, it's really not often. I tend not to think about it as much as one would think for how much time I spend thinking, talking, and reading about other people's (real or fictional) sex lives, but it does come up every couple of years. Especially at times like now, when I am feeling so alone. Sometimes I think my brain registers a desire for intimacy, and when no viable options for emotional intimacy present themselves my body defaults to a desire for physical intimacy.
Other times I think I've just needed a hug for a really long time.
I know it's not a good idea for me to be involved with anyone right now, but I really want. I'm beginning to think it never will be a good idea- sort of like having kids, you can never really afford it, but you do it anyway and you make it work. Maybe this is a close as I'll ever get to being in a good place to date. There are things in my head that I don't want there anymore, things that come up so quickly and without warning when other people are involved, things that make me a horrible person to date.
I used to pride myself on being low-maintenance. And I was, I really was. I'd do pretty much anything, talk about pretty much anything, took almost nothing to heart. I didn't care how much time you spend with your friends, if a week goes by and I don't talk to you I assume we were both busy, you didn't even have to be nicer to me than anyone else. Just sit by me, don't be afraid to talk to me or touch me in front of other people, tell me you missed me or you're glad to see me every once and a while and make some time for just the two of us at least once a month and I was happy. Easy as pie, really.
Now, I feel abandoned or unworthy or some other tripe when I go a week without someone calling me. Not everyone, just if a week goes by and no one has called me, I feel like shit. I second guess everything I think, feel and do. I'm begging for someone to save me from myself most days and I long for physical affection so much it hurts. I've become clingy. I hate clingy.
And on top of that, I'm seriously messed up. I feel the need to hide myself from people so much more now than ever and yet I really want someone to know me well enough to know when I am hiding and push me out of it. I've been intimate a handful of times since I crawled my ass out of that room and now. Now I feel like I know nothing. People tell me no to worry about it, it's like riding a bike, you never really forget. But they're wrong. I have forgotten. I'm as nervous and unskilled as a virgin. More than that, I'm so terrified.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. When is he going to hit me? When is she going to tell me to get out? When are they going to break me? I've been through a lot in my short life, and it's left me with some really... shameful problems.
I was molested as a child. I don't think of it that way though, even still to this day. I remember how much it hurt. I remember how scared I was. I remember how he would touch me, pull me to him and wrap me in his arms. Gentle, like I was something fragile and precious. I remember what he would say, how I was beautiful and smart and good, that he loved me. I remember thinking that I should want this, that it was wrong and dirty and no good for me. I remember that I really did want it. I remember feeling betrayed when he left, waiting for him to come back for me, wondering what I had done wrong to make him leave so suddenly. Later, I remember being angry at my parents, thinking they had found out and taken him from me. But I was smart even at eight and I knew that little girls who were hurt by adults had to go to doctors and see lawyers and I never did. I remember I hated him for leaving, and I hated myself for loosing him.
I remember being told it was just a bad dream. That the man who had been sent to jail for molesting his own daughters had never touched me, had never even touched them. At first I was so angry. Who were they to tell me it wasn't real. I loved him and he loved me and I swore they would take that away from me. Then, later, I was confused. She was so sure, patting me on the head and telling me it was only a bad dream, even tucking me back into bed and smiling so sweetly at me. She was always right.
I still don't know what's true. If I'm a 'troubled' adult because of what happened, or if I was a disturbed child because of what didn't. I think maybe I'm both. I don't have the courage to ask again. Either option scares the hell out of me.
It's weird, because I actually remember remembering. I have very few memories at all before the age of five, who does really? I do remember my parent's divorce, right after Stewart left. I remember being sad and angry and wondering what I done wrong, I don't really remember why. As an adult, I can't tell if it was the mixed up feelings of a little girl loosing her family or something else. I just remember being eight, a dream that had me waking up panting, scared and sad and excited and remembering. But I knew what Stewart had gone to jail for, I knew what it meant. My parents never believed he was guilty. I knew his sentence had been longer because he stabbed someone while he was there. He said it was the guy who actually did it. What if he wasn't lying. What if it was just the workings of an overly imaginative eight year old who was too smart for here own good?
It could be. By eight I knew what sex was, I knew how it worked, I had mental images that were accurate. I knew what a hymen was, where it was, that it would hurt to have sex the first time, perhaps longer than that if the penis was too large to fit into the vagina without tearing. What if I did just dream it up. At eight. What the hell does that say about me?
What bothers me more, is that I've never quite been able to shake the feeling of love I had in the memory. It's been 20 years and I still compare my relationships to it. If I didn't make it up that's pretty sick. If I did, well, that's never going to work out for me. Reality is never like your fantasies.
I don't know. I started all of this because I was talking about being lonely. I was going to give a brief detail of all the past relationship baggage that makes me undateable. Hah. "Brief" never works out for me. Either way, I think that's enough baggage for now. I'm really tired and I haven't been sleeping well so I'm going try to catch some sleep now. Read More...
I tell people this all the time. People who have a hard time expressing themselves, people who feel no one is listening, people who just want to forget. I tell them that they'll explode without release, that the only one who needs to hear is themselves, that they'll never forget but maybe they can let go, and even if there is no one to send a letter to putting the the words to paper in itself can be freeing. And I do believe that, I've seen it a million times it seems. I just never though it would work so well for me.
And I still feel... well, everything I felt earlier this week, but somehow it's more manageable, so I guess it's working.
I'll be honest, my biggest fear is that it would make me feel more lonely. I've been very lonely recently. It happens sometimes- more often than I will generally admit to, really. More than that, I feel very alone. You know that cliche of being alone in a crowded room? Yeah, not like that. But even the short reprieve I seem to feel when around others is just a distraction.
It's not often, but I do get painfully frustrated with my sex life. Trust me, it's really not often. I tend not to think about it as much as one would think for how much time I spend thinking, talking, and reading about other people's (real or fictional) sex lives, but it does come up every couple of years. Especially at times like now, when I am feeling so alone. Sometimes I think my brain registers a desire for intimacy, and when no viable options for emotional intimacy present themselves my body defaults to a desire for physical intimacy.
Other times I think I've just needed a hug for a really long time.
I know it's not a good idea for me to be involved with anyone right now, but I really want. I'm beginning to think it never will be a good idea- sort of like having kids, you can never really afford it, but you do it anyway and you make it work. Maybe this is a close as I'll ever get to being in a good place to date. There are things in my head that I don't want there anymore, things that come up so quickly and without warning when other people are involved, things that make me a horrible person to date.
I used to pride myself on being low-maintenance. And I was, I really was. I'd do pretty much anything, talk about pretty much anything, took almost nothing to heart. I didn't care how much time you spend with your friends, if a week goes by and I don't talk to you I assume we were both busy, you didn't even have to be nicer to me than anyone else. Just sit by me, don't be afraid to talk to me or touch me in front of other people, tell me you missed me or you're glad to see me every once and a while and make some time for just the two of us at least once a month and I was happy. Easy as pie, really.
Now, I feel abandoned or unworthy or some other tripe when I go a week without someone calling me. Not everyone, just if a week goes by and no one has called me, I feel like shit. I second guess everything I think, feel and do. I'm begging for someone to save me from myself most days and I long for physical affection so much it hurts. I've become clingy. I hate clingy.
And on top of that, I'm seriously messed up. I feel the need to hide myself from people so much more now than ever and yet I really want someone to know me well enough to know when I am hiding and push me out of it. I've been intimate a handful of times since I crawled my ass out of that room and now. Now I feel like I know nothing. People tell me no to worry about it, it's like riding a bike, you never really forget. But they're wrong. I have forgotten. I'm as nervous and unskilled as a virgin. More than that, I'm so terrified.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. When is he going to hit me? When is she going to tell me to get out? When are they going to break me? I've been through a lot in my short life, and it's left me with some really... shameful problems.
I was molested as a child. I don't think of it that way though, even still to this day. I remember how much it hurt. I remember how scared I was. I remember how he would touch me, pull me to him and wrap me in his arms. Gentle, like I was something fragile and precious. I remember what he would say, how I was beautiful and smart and good, that he loved me. I remember thinking that I should want this, that it was wrong and dirty and no good for me. I remember that I really did want it. I remember feeling betrayed when he left, waiting for him to come back for me, wondering what I had done wrong to make him leave so suddenly. Later, I remember being angry at my parents, thinking they had found out and taken him from me. But I was smart even at eight and I knew that little girls who were hurt by adults had to go to doctors and see lawyers and I never did. I remember I hated him for leaving, and I hated myself for loosing him.
I remember being told it was just a bad dream. That the man who had been sent to jail for molesting his own daughters had never touched me, had never even touched them. At first I was so angry. Who were they to tell me it wasn't real. I loved him and he loved me and I swore they would take that away from me. Then, later, I was confused. She was so sure, patting me on the head and telling me it was only a bad dream, even tucking me back into bed and smiling so sweetly at me. She was always right.
I still don't know what's true. If I'm a 'troubled' adult because of what happened, or if I was a disturbed child because of what didn't. I think maybe I'm both. I don't have the courage to ask again. Either option scares the hell out of me.
It's weird, because I actually remember remembering. I have very few memories at all before the age of five, who does really? I do remember my parent's divorce, right after Stewart left. I remember being sad and angry and wondering what I done wrong, I don't really remember why. As an adult, I can't tell if it was the mixed up feelings of a little girl loosing her family or something else. I just remember being eight, a dream that had me waking up panting, scared and sad and excited and remembering. But I knew what Stewart had gone to jail for, I knew what it meant. My parents never believed he was guilty. I knew his sentence had been longer because he stabbed someone while he was there. He said it was the guy who actually did it. What if he wasn't lying. What if it was just the workings of an overly imaginative eight year old who was too smart for here own good?
It could be. By eight I knew what sex was, I knew how it worked, I had mental images that were accurate. I knew what a hymen was, where it was, that it would hurt to have sex the first time, perhaps longer than that if the penis was too large to fit into the vagina without tearing. What if I did just dream it up. At eight. What the hell does that say about me?
What bothers me more, is that I've never quite been able to shake the feeling of love I had in the memory. It's been 20 years and I still compare my relationships to it. If I didn't make it up that's pretty sick. If I did, well, that's never going to work out for me. Reality is never like your fantasies.
I don't know. I started all of this because I was talking about being lonely. I was going to give a brief detail of all the past relationship baggage that makes me undateable. Hah. "Brief" never works out for me. Either way, I think that's enough baggage for now. I'm really tired and I haven't been sleeping well so I'm going try to catch some sleep now. Read More...
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