I write as though I have more to say

To be honest, I'm aware that this blog has fizzled out since I have arrived back into my regular habit of life and goings-on since Spain (2 years ago). I still write when I am overflowing with emotions (the result of stress, lack of sleep, or hormonal changes due to yet another change in my medicine). 

So here (to no one) are some ramblings and nonsense that sit in my brain as I try to sleep before a long day or as I sit in the same clothes I've had on since 6 this morning (jeans unbuttoned, of course), unable to unravel from the day's happenings. 

Despite letting go of guilt and anger and fear and angst from my past experiences over a long and painful regrowth process, of course I know these parts of me existed and were real in my life at one point. I also know that without what I've gone through and the events of my life- good, bad, or otherwise- I wouldn't be where I am today. So, I think about and write about things have have come and gone, not because they are still functioning aspects of my life or represent my current feelings or experiences, but because I have lived some great stories and I love to share them. I write about heartbreak and loss and exes and learning and growing because those pieces have shaped me into a new person, a greater person. I write about the past because I  will not be ashamed of it and because I love it the way I love my childhood swingset- it's gone now, or being used by other kids, or overgrown with weeds and uncut grass, but I can still remember trying to drag my dog up the ladder somehow and getting stung by that fucking bee on the slide.

It's one of those "it'll all work out in the end" things or whatever. 

Thus:

9/1/14

I loved him and then I didn't. And probably by some cosmic joke of the Universe, immediately after this, I dove into the arms of another, who incidentally (and not funny, by the way, Universe) fell out of love with me in the end. 

Until I figure out this "love" thing, as I challenge my current views of it and what I have been taught it means, I vow to stay out of it. Holding aside any dramatic flashbacks of a tragic childhood or of watching relationships fall apart around me, it is suffice to say that I have yet to understand what it is to be in love. Despite this, I am fine with not ever having experienced love the way it is described in the movies. I am not a dysfunctional person because of it, I am not held back or handicapped. Really, at the end of the day, I am happy with knowing I have a lot of learning ahead of me on my path. Learning about love. 

So, just as I am preparing for my last first day of school in the foreseeable future: setting out my outfit for tomorrow, gathering my color-coded folders, and equipping my backpack, I am also readying myself for an emotional schooling of sorts. I am opening myself (back) up to the idea of love, and this is my story. 

***

2/15/15

There were a lot of those "almosts" and "could have beens" in my life. A heaping handful of opportunities that suddenly weren't. There were a few flings and plenty of crushes, but it wasn't until he came along that I ever thought a possibility could grow from a "may have been". 

And really, it wasn't until well over a year with him that I even put it together that perhaps there was no end, and interestingly enough, perhaps there didn't have to be. Up until that point in my life, as my mom finalized a second divorce that left us on our asses, and in the midst of my last year of high school, all my small town brain knew of relationships was that they don't last. And that it is probably for the better that they don't. 

I wasn't especially torn up about this knowledge, about this truth that I did hold to be self-evident, until around that one year mark. It was fine, because that is life. 

I guess I was sort of wise even then with my limited view of everything, as it turns out. 

Anyway, going into the relationship was different for me than any other before- I leapt and he said "okay, gotcha." The whole "gotcha" part was what was different with him. God knows I had leapt many times before then without being caught. 

So that was new. It was weird. It was unexpected. And it was scary. 

I thought I had to come up with a deadline. I figured one was coming, so I prepared for it. 

I packed the beginning of that little relationship up the way one prepares a bag for a mini vacation. I grabbed the shit I needed, I skipped the stuff I didn't, and I brought one cute outfit (just in case). I packed for just that many days, knowing I would have to come home to do the laundry after the trip. 

So, in accordance with this metaphor, I put in the amount of effort and care that I 1)expected to be returned to me, and 2) I knew it wouldn't last. 

It wasn't until 3, 4, and 5 years later that things did end. As I'm speaking about this In the present, it can be assumed by you, dear reader, that we are not together any longer. But eventually I did stop packing for those mini vacations, and forgot what I needed, and just sort of packed a shirt and some (probably) clean undies and hoped for the best. 

I gave a lot to that relationship. I pushed. I pulled. We fought, we loved. It was a whirlwind I suppose, whatever the hell that means. And as with any storm, it was destructive and scary, and exciting, and then devastating in the end. 

***

3/2/15

One time when I was about 5 or 6 years old I went to the drug store with my mom and while she was in the next isle over, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear, and committed my first crime. I pocketed one single stick of Bazooka bubble gum—you know, the kind that turns to flavorless stone after about 15 seconds, and has that stupid comic on the inside of the wrapper. We left the store and didn’t even make it to the car before this overwhelming guilt and impending doom of being caught by the police and getting hauled away to prison forever became too much to handle for my fragile and dramatic brain. I cracked in the most pathetic way, and babbled some incoherent and slobbery words at my mother about the gum and shoved “Exhibit A” into her direction, unable to meet her gaze. I’m sure my mother wanted to coddle her stupid child for this fantastic display of human emotion, but she put on the face of a concerned and angry parent and made me walk back into the store, admit my offense, and offer to pay for the gum. I felt like a crumpled piece of paper and sort of threw a dime at the lady behind the counter before taking off to the car, sobbing. 

If this story tells you anything about the person I am today, it is that I make an awful partner in crime, and that I experience emotions in extreme ways. I almost always ruin the punch line of jokes and I'm always hungry.

My year revolves around summertime- its slow arrival, its short stay, its goodbye party, and the time when I am absolutely, and with conviction, convinced it will never, ever return. 

My roommate has orange hair. His official name is Lord Miles of the Manor, but many commoners know him as Miles. Most nights he trains for the kitty Olympics until 3 or 4am, which is less than fantastic, considering I am not a morning person. 

I have an insatiable appetite for learning, which has lead me to explore many incredible places in the world and eat a lot of odd things.

There needs to be a good reason for me to leave my apartment when it is below 50 degrees, and I spend most of my time knitting and crocheting useless things that turn out weird and re-reading Alice in Wonderland. 

***

5/5/15

Metaphors that aren’t really true but the stuff they represent is:

There’s a dream I keep having. It has something to do with lost love I think- but that’s in this psychodynamic, uncovering the unconscious interpretation thing.

It involves pizza, diet coke, and a glass of chocolate almond milk (it’s no secret that I’m obsessed with food- although, on that thought, what living thing isn’t?... I digress). In the dream a very tall man pours a perfect glass of chocolate almond milk into a mason jar. There isn’t that weird chugging sound or those fart bubbles when you pour too quickly and the liquid comes out in squashes, it really is the perfect pour and the perfect amount of this wonderfully sweet drink. Just then, there’s a knock at the door, a patient one. It’s the type of knock of someone who isn’t sure if they got the correct apartment number and is running slightly ahead of schedule. It’s a gorgeous man holding a hot pizza box and a 2-liter of diet coke. My first thought was, “How do people drink that crap?” And then I close the door slowly. Meaning I left that stunning man standing outside the door holding that stupid pizza box in one hand and the diet coke in the other.

He probably knows now that he did, in fact, have the wrong door.

But he didn’t.

He was the guy and I was the girl and we were supposed to meet.

Without hesitation, despite being hungry and knowing that my chocolate almond milk would only satisfy some of my thirst, I shut the door on that eager guy and carried on about my business. I’m not sure what my dream self was even doing alone in her apartment- which really isn’t too far from reality, given that some evenings will go by and I won’t even have left the couch or bed and I couldn’t tell you what I was even up to for hours.

Anyway, being a Freud person myself, I can deduce what this dream represents: The chocolate almond milk symbolizes my (relatively) new taking to vegetarianism and wanting a “healthy lifestyle” and to “eat clean” and “take care of my body”, etc. etc.

Then the tall guy, I’m assuming has something to do with looming stress and towering anxiety (get it, towering?), but the stress pours my delicious milk- I don’t know, I haven’t really sorted that part out yet.

Then there’s the patient knock- the gorgeous guy at the door- that’s B. He’s holding a pizza (his favorite) and diet coke (A’s favorite).

I closed the door without even thinking twice because that is who I am. I make quick decisions after mulling over the choices for weeks and not ever coming to a conclusion, and then carry on and hope for the best- actually, I convince myself that it is the best (I’m quite confident in my decisions).

Anyway, it may be lost love because I love B and he loves me. He is my person and I’m his unicorn or whatever the fuck. But he can’t be in a committed relationship even though we’ve been “together” for over a year and that truly is fine with me because it is good and great and everything is awesome, but what does it mean to have a sort-of-future-fiancé who won’t be your boyfriend?

And because of A, my best friend, my soulmate, and how we’ve drifted apart and barely know each other anymore even after 12 years of friendship and love. It really is one of those unfortunate situations where things are fast and good and fine until they aren’t- and that really is the saddest part.

But then again, this dream isn't real, the symbols are just that, and I am an active participant in my life. 

Also, things that are lost can be found or things that wander aren't lost or being lost is fine because you find yourself that way or lost is not forever and it's always in the last place you look because why would you keep looking once you've found it?