What is it about tomorrow that permits every one of us to channel Scarlett O’Hara? Tomorrow is just another day, but so is today. So was yesterday. Why do we put off until tomorrow what we could do today? What’s going to change about ourselves, about our motivation, our abilities, about the world we live in? Is it about the promise, the idea of starting anew, starting fresh - as if we’ve already ruined today’s chances? Is it merely a scapegoat, a hairy excuse with horns lazily wandering through our thoughts with a mouthful of weeds that reminds us the grass is always greener on the other side of midnight? Of course, the opposite problem is always possible, so afraid of tomorrow that there can be no rest for the weary.
The dilemma is, how does the weary rest and accomplish life’s goals?
My dad is dead. He didn’t pass away - he died. He spoke to my mother on the phone, walked out of the house, got into his car, started it up and put it in reverse. Then he died. And ran his car into the corner of the neighbor’s house. It wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack. He wasn’t suffering from a chronic illness or a debilitating disease, he didn’t have an accident, he wasn’t attacked nor did he meet his fate at the hands of a natural disaster. He dropped over dead.
I’m not sure what he thought about that day, if he was contemplating his retirement or planning a visit to see me in Kansas City. Maybe there was a basketball game on that evening or perhaps a pile of work shirts that needed ironed. Was he thinking about Christmas?
The date was December 6. It was 3 days past his 65th birthday.
He never did visit me in Kansas City. He never saw his grandson play soccer or meet my dog. He also never had that sports car he’d dreamed of.
I don’t know what else my dad wanted. I doubt it was very much. But I wish that I’d asked him.
This isn’t about what my father did or did not accomplish in his lifetime and it isn’t about the idea we could all drop dead at any moment.
It isn’t entirely about those things.
Though they both weigh heavily on my mind. I try not to perseverate on those thoughts of gloom and doom or else they’d invade my world with a crippling darkness that sucks me deeper under the covers each morning until one day I’m unable to leave my bed.
Ah.
That’s it, isn’t it?
That’s tomorrow.
Whether we’re well or sick, happy or sad, rested or tired, joyful or fearful, alive or dead - tomorrow happens.
Tomorrow will happen.
Suddenly the blinds are flung open and rays of sunshine stream in through the windows and I indeed am greeted by a new day, by tomorrow.
Tomorrow is hope.
Because tomorrow happens there is also the opportunity to create a tomorrow, any tomorrow that fulfills our needs. Obligations, dreams, desires, fantasies, challenges, chores - all will be greeted by tomorrow, just as we will be. It’s a mental manipulation we can carry around ourselves like a security blanket. We become Linuses of the lies, using tomorrow as an excuse and wrapping our souls in swaddled promises and breathe easy, a sigh of relief, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…
I can do it tomorrow!
I don’t need to worry about it until tomorrow!
Tomorrow we can be anyone and do anything and accomplish whatever we put our minds to doing.
Tomorrow things will be different…
And things could be different - the lies are only poison insofar as we allow ourselves to betray what we know to be true: We have control over our own lives and we alone are responsible for the choices that we make. Are you freaking kidding me? It’s called free will! We are the puppeteers and the masters of our own fates. We can’t be afraid of the challenge - it’s too easy to allow the world to take over and dictate the day.
It’s not only that we put off the unpleasant, we seem to put off anything that deviates from routine. For someone that hates routine and throws around the word “complacency” with the same amount of contempt I exhibit when I pronounce Sarah Palin’s name, one might think that I would do anything to escape a routine. Yet I find myself in a daily revolving door.
Tomorrow will happen. If not for me, then for somebody else.
Oh, yeah…Three years later my parents’ neighbors have yet to fix the corner of their house. Perhaps they keep putting it off, until tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I'm not really sure what it is, but I know it isn't indigestion...
A friend of mine is bored. Yes, you - my only male follower. I read your blog and your reflections on life and your frustrations of boredom. Sleepwalking through the world, your job, with only your motorcycle and your blog to entertain you. Certainly, companionship has its merits and your lovely wife and wuppies tolerate your cranky ass; devotion of which I know you are eternally grateful. But you are bored nonetheless. It may not even be your own boredom which creates a haze of lassitude, an uncomfortable awkward feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach and causes you to stare unblinking for minutes at a time until you're suddenly aroused by an auspicious noise and turn hopeful looking for excitement, entertainment, anything to awaken your brain from the hum of its constant stupor and -
oh wait. that could be me. fuck.
OK - so I am bored. But it just isn't my boredom alone that causes me frustration. I am profoundly affected by others' boredom, only I don't think they know they are bored. I think I get the greatest frustration out of those who should be bored but appear to be just fine and settled into their innate little lives, long paved roads of which they have been traveling since before they can remember, no potholes, no deviations, no construction, not even a passing lane. I have written about this before. Obviously I've come no closer to an answer. I feel like there is so much about our lives, about our world that is cause for exploration, for adventure. I cannot say that I empathize with folks who are satisfied with routine though I can honestly say that a part of me is envious of their complacency.
But I'm not really sure that it's boredom. It's more of.....a longing for the unknown.
no. dumb.
A propensity for change.
ugh. Be patient, I'll come up with something once I am on a roll.
I enjoy many aspects of my life. I love my family and friends. Spending time with my son is outstanding.
you know, for someone who frequently writes/types as if the words were flowing from my fingertips like Guinness from a tap, those three sentences were excrutiatingly slooooow.
Not that I am making them up, however. Are you freaking kidding me - my kid is rock star. And I have great friends and family, along with a very supportive and loving boyfriend. Let me tell you why I am so affected by the "boredom" of others, why the moronic complacency of my fellow person seems to suck the wind from my lungs. These zombies with a heartbeat are so fucking happy with themselves, at least to the point where they don't analyze the hell out of it all. My problem is that I haven't fully accepted myself yet and reconciled those life commitments and responsibilities with my passions. I'm not comfortable with myself, and that is a very uncomfortable feeling, and I have such difficulty with that reconciliation I shut it down. I repress it, because if I didn't it would remind me that I have absolutely no idea what it is I want to do with myself and I won't be able to figure it out, I'll have a terrible headache with a crippling depression that lasts longer than Cialis. I'm already half-panicked at the idea of growing old and dying so losing 36 hours of my life because I decided to think about it which resulted in an emotional bender and a full-blown pity party is pretty much not on my immediate to-do list.
But if I am so unsettled, if I am so out of place, if I am so bored, then why don't I just fucking do something about it?
oh, ok. so it's that easy.
What is it that I am going to do? Because I can't spend another 33 years watching other people live their lives and referring to them as zombies with heartbeats and poking fun at their seeming lack of intelligence. Because it's me who is the fucking moron. If I could only get inspired. But that's the thing, I write that and read it over and I know it's total bullshit - I shouldn't be looking for inspiration. It's as if I am always looking for something - for a reason, for an excuse, for a sign, for someone else to do it, to make me do it, whatever. I should try living a little in an active mode rather than a reactive one.
So maybe that's what it is - I'm an electron looking for a chain reaction, a battery in need of a jump...good lord, those are hideous analogies. I'm really reaching for straws here.
I'm not bored, but I'm not...comfortable.
I can blame it on the pad Thai I had for dinner.
Blame it on the ADD?
Blame it on the rain?
The matter of contention is that I am smart as a whip and though I couldn't pass an elementary school test I could kick the teacher's ass in the facts of life. But that and the loose change in my wallet won't get me very far.
This is all coming back to my job again, isn't it?
oh wait. that could be me. fuck.
OK - so I am bored. But it just isn't my boredom alone that causes me frustration. I am profoundly affected by others' boredom, only I don't think they know they are bored. I think I get the greatest frustration out of those who should be bored but appear to be just fine and settled into their innate little lives, long paved roads of which they have been traveling since before they can remember, no potholes, no deviations, no construction, not even a passing lane. I have written about this before. Obviously I've come no closer to an answer. I feel like there is so much about our lives, about our world that is cause for exploration, for adventure. I cannot say that I empathize with folks who are satisfied with routine though I can honestly say that a part of me is envious of their complacency.
But I'm not really sure that it's boredom. It's more of.....a longing for the unknown.
no. dumb.
A propensity for change.
ugh. Be patient, I'll come up with something once I am on a roll.
I enjoy many aspects of my life. I love my family and friends. Spending time with my son is outstanding.
you know, for someone who frequently writes/types as if the words were flowing from my fingertips like Guinness from a tap, those three sentences were excrutiatingly slooooow.
Not that I am making them up, however. Are you freaking kidding me - my kid is rock star. And I have great friends and family, along with a very supportive and loving boyfriend. Let me tell you why I am so affected by the "boredom" of others, why the moronic complacency of my fellow person seems to suck the wind from my lungs. These zombies with a heartbeat are so fucking happy with themselves, at least to the point where they don't analyze the hell out of it all. My problem is that I haven't fully accepted myself yet and reconciled those life commitments and responsibilities with my passions. I'm not comfortable with myself, and that is a very uncomfortable feeling, and I have such difficulty with that reconciliation I shut it down. I repress it, because if I didn't it would remind me that I have absolutely no idea what it is I want to do with myself and I won't be able to figure it out, I'll have a terrible headache with a crippling depression that lasts longer than Cialis. I'm already half-panicked at the idea of growing old and dying so losing 36 hours of my life because I decided to think about it which resulted in an emotional bender and a full-blown pity party is pretty much not on my immediate to-do list.
But if I am so unsettled, if I am so out of place, if I am so bored, then why don't I just fucking do something about it?
oh, ok. so it's that easy.
What is it that I am going to do? Because I can't spend another 33 years watching other people live their lives and referring to them as zombies with heartbeats and poking fun at their seeming lack of intelligence. Because it's me who is the fucking moron. If I could only get inspired. But that's the thing, I write that and read it over and I know it's total bullshit - I shouldn't be looking for inspiration. It's as if I am always looking for something - for a reason, for an excuse, for a sign, for someone else to do it, to make me do it, whatever. I should try living a little in an active mode rather than a reactive one.
So maybe that's what it is - I'm an electron looking for a chain reaction, a battery in need of a jump...good lord, those are hideous analogies. I'm really reaching for straws here.
I'm not bored, but I'm not...comfortable.
I can blame it on the pad Thai I had for dinner.
Blame it on the ADD?
Blame it on the rain?
The matter of contention is that I am smart as a whip and though I couldn't pass an elementary school test I could kick the teacher's ass in the facts of life. But that and the loose change in my wallet won't get me very far.
This is all coming back to my job again, isn't it?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Wait...what?
There must be something about being at the library that causes me to sit at computer #9 and submit entries to this blog. Quite a bit of time has passed since my last entry, though the delay has certainly not been intentional. I've got dozens - if not hundreds - of ideas for blogs running through my mind daily. Most of the time these random ideas spring into my head when I am at work. Not really an appropriate place to drop what I am doing and start typing away my feelings. I don't have internet at home, and when I sign online it's through the use of a neighbor's wireless and the connection is sketchy at best. I usually become defeated, waiting for the page to load and deciding it is too reminiscient of my parents' antiquated dial-up internet. Then I sign off after doing nothing more than checking my facebook page (such a priority) and wandering around on iTunes.
If I find myself at a reliable computer, or even after hours at work where the peacefulness of the office is such antithesis of the day it actually lulls me awake, I reach for the keyboard eager to purge myself of dogged inspiration and enlighten the world around me and...nothing. I've got nothing.
One would think that over the years I would learn to carry a notebook around with me in order to jot down those flashes of brilliance that tease my neural pathways into believing that they do indeed serve a vitally important task of stimulating my often dormant grey matter. For some reason I have become tolerant of my mediocrity and perversely appreciative of my status as an underachiever, as one who is expected but defies expectations. I stand proudly, Belushi in his "College" sweatshirt, Colbert reporting live on CNN, W. ordering whiskey in a gay bar, Sarah Palin speaking at a MENSA conference. I'm out of place, increasingly more so as I age. Knowing I don't belong in my current intellectual & social environment but daring everyone to notice. It's not cute anymore, it's not parent-teacher conferences - no one is going to tell my mom how much potentional I have but lack the follow through. Motivation needs to come from within. I should put some big-girl pants on, take the bull by the horns, step up to the plate and ride that bastard around the bases until it bucks me.
But.
what a terrible fucking word
But.I.Can't.Seem.To.Get.It.Together.
I finally decided that as part of my delayed foray into adulthood I would start taking responsbility for myself, and that meant not saying repeatedly "I can do this - I don't need any help" and standing naked in the mirror staring at all those exposed parts of my life that seem to exist in perpetual chaos and admitting, "ya, ok. I could use a little assistance".
Let me take a few steps back and lean against the wall while I wait for everyone to catch up. The thing is this - sometimes I interrupt myself. Verbally, mentally. I'll be in the middle of a sentence anda new train of thought comes tearing loudly through the tunnel and leaving colloquial carnage in its wake. I forget where I park my car. I lose money. I couldn't balance my checking account or stick to a budget if someone had a gun to my head. I try!...but I often can't seem to remember how much money I have or who I owe it to...or something like that. I start and stop tasks at work and then never think of them again. I have gone to meetings to discuss projects I have been working on only to have no idea what it was I was supposed to be discussing. I miss all varieties of appointments. I started writing a novel and haven't touched it for over four years. It's my one greatest life's dream and I frequently forget that I have the outline and first chapter written. I walk into a room at home for one thing, and then become side-tracked and do something else. Later I realize that I never actually did that original thing. I'm overwhelmed with too many tasks and overburdened with personal responsibilities. What is priority? I don't know! What is a priority? Everything seems urgent, important, top of mind...
I saw a credit counselor. I'm not ashamed to admit. This is a tough economy and if I want to get through it (and retire at the age of 40 in order to live out the second half of my life as an writer), I need to get my financial shit together. At the end of the meeting, after tallying up my new budget, the credit counselor politely mentioned that the amount of money I had left over was impressive, given that most people in my situation have very little with which to save. I wasn't surprised. I know I have the fucking money. I just don't know how to manage it. Pathetic.
I went to an 8-hour class at a local community college called "Increasing Personal Productivity". I skipped to the car and whistled the theme song to Sesame Street, awed at my new-found knowledge and desperate to shove my entire life into the inside of an 8x11 zippered leather-bound planner. Life was good.
I made an appointment for the local mental health center. After years of being teased (always a kernel of truth, I say) and years of resistence, I decided to meet with a mental health counselor and open my mind to the idea that I may possibly perhaps in some slight way have...adult attention deficit disorder.
sigh
This wasn't easy for me! It's tough to be a martyr if you're learning the skills to overcome a disability - especially if someone is assisting you in the development of those skills. Sure, Joan of Arc would have escaped a horrid, painful death had someone said, "Look, Joan: We're all a little concerned about these "visions" and "voices" that you've been yammering on about. Sitting alone at afternoon tea, talking with yourself, calling out to God. We've called in a 5150 to have you evaluated for schizophrenia." Boom! Before Joan knows it, she's on Clozapine, living in a halfway house, working at the local 7/11 and renouncing Christianity for paganism. At most she may make assistant manager, but - ah! - the disabled Joan left to her own devices was made a saint.
I'm not pompous enough to believe I may eventually be canonized if I ride around town on a horse and dress like a man, refuting my shortcomings and struggling with my deficiencies. All I am saying is that I am a bit comfortable being a scatterbrain - it covers me like a warm blanket. It is what I am used to, what I have known.
Or maybe I am just afraid that if I get my shit together I may need actually need to accomplish something?
scary
At any rate, I make this appointment for the other day at 8:00am. This is what happened the morning of the appointment:
wake up at 7:00am
take shower
remember that I have a charity lunch and need to dress nice
pull shirt out of dirty clothes
find pants that I purchased last summer and never had hemmed
select really really high heels
attempt to sign online at home and look up directions
attempt to sign online again
reload page several times until I finally get an address
assume that I know where said address is and that it won't take me long to find it
look for my new insurance card on the kitchen table under a stack of papers and junk mail
give up after five minutes
run out through the garage and am reminded that it is trash/recycle day
pause to look at 3 weeks worth of trash and recycling
decide to wait another week
get in the car and notice gas light is on
start driving where I think I need to go
get lost
can't call office because I don't have the phone number
finally realize the direction I should be going but will run out of gas before I get there
stop at gas station and put the only $5 cash in the tank I have on me because my checking account is overdrawn and I can't use my debit card
find the damn office
suddenly notice the new insurance card on the passenger side floor of my car underneath my checkbook and a week-old apple
go up to the front desk and greet the receptionist at 8:45am
I don't remember the counselor's name
I announce that I am late
she asks me if I want to reschedule
I declare that I was told my appointment was an hour and a half therefore I have time left
she says fill out paperwork and go through intake but I won't be able to see the therapist
I explain to receptionist that I went through a lot just to make it to the damn office
she understands
hands me the clipboard and says she will try to squeeze me in with intake
I pause for several moments and return clipboard
I thank the receptionist
I leave
I've decided that I may not have as much experience as that mental health counselor, but I have just as much - if not more - education. So I am going to cure myself.
Here I am in the library. I came to research ADD in adults. I wrote a blog. The library closes in 8 minutes. I have not yet looked for any books.
Next time, I guess.
Maybe I should jot that down...
If I find myself at a reliable computer, or even after hours at work where the peacefulness of the office is such antithesis of the day it actually lulls me awake, I reach for the keyboard eager to purge myself of dogged inspiration and enlighten the world around me and...nothing. I've got nothing.
One would think that over the years I would learn to carry a notebook around with me in order to jot down those flashes of brilliance that tease my neural pathways into believing that they do indeed serve a vitally important task of stimulating my often dormant grey matter. For some reason I have become tolerant of my mediocrity and perversely appreciative of my status as an underachiever, as one who is expected but defies expectations. I stand proudly, Belushi in his "College" sweatshirt, Colbert reporting live on CNN, W. ordering whiskey in a gay bar, Sarah Palin speaking at a MENSA conference. I'm out of place, increasingly more so as I age. Knowing I don't belong in my current intellectual & social environment but daring everyone to notice. It's not cute anymore, it's not parent-teacher conferences - no one is going to tell my mom how much potentional I have but lack the follow through. Motivation needs to come from within. I should put some big-girl pants on, take the bull by the horns, step up to the plate and ride that bastard around the bases until it bucks me.
But.
what a terrible fucking word
But.I.Can't.Seem.To.Get.It.Together.
I finally decided that as part of my delayed foray into adulthood I would start taking responsbility for myself, and that meant not saying repeatedly "I can do this - I don't need any help" and standing naked in the mirror staring at all those exposed parts of my life that seem to exist in perpetual chaos and admitting, "ya, ok. I could use a little assistance".
Let me take a few steps back and lean against the wall while I wait for everyone to catch up. The thing is this - sometimes I interrupt myself. Verbally, mentally. I'll be in the middle of a sentence and
I saw a credit counselor. I'm not ashamed to admit. This is a tough economy and if I want to get through it (and retire at the age of 40 in order to live out the second half of my life as an writer), I need to get my financial shit together. At the end of the meeting, after tallying up my new budget, the credit counselor politely mentioned that the amount of money I had left over was impressive, given that most people in my situation have very little with which to save. I wasn't surprised. I know I have the fucking money. I just don't know how to manage it. Pathetic.
I went to an 8-hour class at a local community college called "Increasing Personal Productivity". I skipped to the car and whistled the theme song to Sesame Street, awed at my new-found knowledge and desperate to shove my entire life into the inside of an 8x11 zippered leather-bound planner. Life was good.
I made an appointment for the local mental health center. After years of being teased (always a kernel of truth, I say) and years of resistence, I decided to meet with a mental health counselor and open my mind to the idea that I may possibly perhaps in some slight way have...adult attention deficit disorder.
sigh
This wasn't easy for me! It's tough to be a martyr if you're learning the skills to overcome a disability - especially if someone is assisting you in the development of those skills. Sure, Joan of Arc would have escaped a horrid, painful death had someone said, "Look, Joan: We're all a little concerned about these "visions" and "voices" that you've been yammering on about. Sitting alone at afternoon tea, talking with yourself, calling out to God. We've called in a 5150 to have you evaluated for schizophrenia." Boom! Before Joan knows it, she's on Clozapine, living in a halfway house, working at the local 7/11 and renouncing Christianity for paganism. At most she may make assistant manager, but - ah! - the disabled Joan left to her own devices was made a saint.
I'm not pompous enough to believe I may eventually be canonized if I ride around town on a horse and dress like a man, refuting my shortcomings and struggling with my deficiencies. All I am saying is that I am a bit comfortable being a scatterbrain - it covers me like a warm blanket. It is what I am used to, what I have known.
Or maybe I am just afraid that if I get my shit together I may need actually need to accomplish something?
scary
At any rate, I make this appointment for the other day at 8:00am. This is what happened the morning of the appointment:
wake up at 7:00am
take shower
remember that I have a charity lunch and need to dress nice
pull shirt out of dirty clothes
find pants that I purchased last summer and never had hemmed
select really really high heels
attempt to sign online at home and look up directions
attempt to sign online again
reload page several times until I finally get an address
assume that I know where said address is and that it won't take me long to find it
look for my new insurance card on the kitchen table under a stack of papers and junk mail
give up after five minutes
run out through the garage and am reminded that it is trash/recycle day
pause to look at 3 weeks worth of trash and recycling
decide to wait another week
get in the car and notice gas light is on
start driving where I think I need to go
get lost
can't call office because I don't have the phone number
finally realize the direction I should be going but will run out of gas before I get there
stop at gas station and put the only $5 cash in the tank I have on me because my checking account is overdrawn and I can't use my debit card
find the damn office
suddenly notice the new insurance card on the passenger side floor of my car underneath my checkbook and a week-old apple
go up to the front desk and greet the receptionist at 8:45am
I don't remember the counselor's name
I announce that I am late
she asks me if I want to reschedule
I declare that I was told my appointment was an hour and a half therefore I have time left
she says fill out paperwork and go through intake but I won't be able to see the therapist
I explain to receptionist that I went through a lot just to make it to the damn office
she understands
hands me the clipboard and says she will try to squeeze me in with intake
I pause for several moments and return clipboard
I thank the receptionist
I leave
I've decided that I may not have as much experience as that mental health counselor, but I have just as much - if not more - education. So I am going to cure myself.
Here I am in the library. I came to research ADD in adults. I wrote a blog. The library closes in 8 minutes. I have not yet looked for any books.
Next time, I guess.
Maybe I should jot that down...
Monday, February 16, 2009
public humiliation
So right now I am sitting on a public computer at the Johnson County Public Library. I have the day off of work and I brought my son here (who has the day off of school) to obtain a couple of library cards. Somewhere between the fiction aisle of Jones-Kunstler (thumbing through a copy of Kerouac's "On the Road" and shamelessly drooling all over the print) and non-fiction foreign language reference (all of the Italian tutorials are on cassette tape. really?) I decided that I must start a formal blog. Had to. Immediately. Just for the fuck of it. I logged onto computer #9, hit google blogs, and here I am. I have 64 minutes remaining in which to spill whatever it is that needed to be released so publicly. 63 minutes.
The fact of the matter is that I physically need to write. I'm desperately in love with the sound of my own words, how they flow from my fingertips so effortlessly and eloquently (at times) even when I write pissed off. I cannot seem to use that same sort of verbal free self-expression without fucking up my point and/or sticking my foot in my mouth. Unfortunately, I haven't been equipped with a vocal delete key (or a mute button, much to the dismay of those around me). I've tried blogging on myspace but I'm so over that. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I felt like I absolutely had to write again, doing so publicly and at the same time reaching a wider audience. Though I haven't yet decided whether or not I give a damn if anyone is reading. Or listening. Having it out there is good enough for me, and it means that I don't have to talk about it if I can write it down. I live in terrible fear of being constantly misunderstood and writing seems to convey my emotions and thoughts better than word vomit.
56 minutes.
Books I am checking out today? I went for "Toxic Work", "Time Off for Good Behavior: How Hardworking Women Can Take a Break and Change Their Lives", "You Don't Need a Title to Be a Leader", "Is Your Genius at Work?" (notice a trend?) along with "Generation Debt" and some fiction for good measure, Mark Haddon's "A Spot of Bother". Mark Haddon wrote a fantastic book a few years back entitled "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime." Great read - I highly recommend it.
My son just came over and asked me if I thought they had video games available for check-out. He failed to see the irony of that question.
Back to my title list. Certainly work is on my mind, as it is most hours, most days. I feel like I haven't decided what I want to do with my life yet and not quite convinced that I'm not meant to be doing what I am doing now. Confused? Try being me. Most days it isn't about the work itself as much as it is the work environment and my own behavior. I do admit when I manage to find myself with a light workload and I am able to put in a normal 9-5, the work itself begins to eat at me. What is it about my life that is causing me so much discontent? I must be careful what I wish for because one of my biggest fears is complacency. The major problem I have recently discovered is that I don't seem to understand what being an adult really means, and I certainly lack an ability to behave in adult-like manner if I don't get whatever anyone is fucking talking about.
By the way, apparently the library does offer video games for borrowing, though not at this location. The irony still stings but I am intrigued enough to take my son to Lackman to peruse the selection.
47 minutes.
Words like responsibility and committment and obligation leave me pale and sweaty, like the after-effect of too many tequila shots without the brief deliciousness on my tongue and general feeling of being bad-ass. Whatever happened to happiness and willingness and inspiration? Why should the road to self-fulfillment involve forcing myself to choose a path on which to drag my feet slowly along as I head for death? My dramatic interpretation of employment and career may be lost on most, but at least I'm colorful if anything. No one is forcing you to read this.
Are these books that I've checked out going to help me? What kind of help am I looking for? I have no freaking idea. I don't know what I am looking for, but I do realize that I won't find it in one of those books. My difficulty (prepare to hate me) is that I have all of these assets - not strengths exactly, because some of them are very raw and under-utilized - but I do possess a myriad of abilities any one of which would allow me to pursue a different career path. It's not set in stone for me, my path has never been obvious and I have finally come to the realization that it's because there isn't one. I don't take the road less traveled by - I pull my machete from my belt and hack the shit out of some brush and make my own fucking road. It's got so many twists and turns and dead-ends and alleyways that from an aerial view I imagine it looks as if three drunken farmers on riding mowers let loose in the field and decided to race. And got lost.
That's me. I'm lost. None of what I want to do with my life is related at all to work and career. As much as I love to write, as obsessed as I am with words and expression, I don't even know what I want to do with that. I don't know what I can do with that. Fiction, non-fiction, self-help, journalism, travel reviews, what the fuck? I don't know. If there was a way to investigate that without being penalized I would do it. And by "penalized" I mean fired from my job, arrested by the Kansas Department of Children and Family Services, chased down by bill collectors and ostracized by my friends and family. Well, not all of them because some of them are fucking nuts and admittedly enjoy living vicarously through me, even if it means laughing at my ridiculousness. A friend of mine (who writes one hell of a blog herself) recently left our shared place of employment to pursue that which makes her happy - writing. As she builds her porfolio she spends her time earning a proper wage a local restaurant/brewery. I could never do that. At least I don't think so. I'm not sure. Does it make sense to leave a salaried position with medical benefits in this economy while trying to raise a 10-year old by myself? Is that responsible?
But what is responsibility? I feel like too many times when we utter that word we are referring more to responsibility to society and others, rather than responsibility to ourselves. Is it more irresponsible to pursue a career path that will never quite "fit", performing it adequately and even better than most while still falling far short of my true life potential? When is it time to cut my losses with that machete, step back into the jungle and find a new way? Can I be truly happy carrying out the trajectory upon which I have been stumbling for the past three years? Somewhere along the way I hit adulthood without realizing it and I am doing a poor job at coping. I see folks younger than I am who seem to have it figured out. Are you freaking kidding me? In restless nights of sleep I lie awake by the noise in my head, wishing carelessly that I was a folk who had it figured out, so simple and one-dimensional with an IQ much lower than that I possess. I feel guilty and selfish and unappreciative that I have been given the opportunity to learn and grow in a corporate setting. But I feel the most guilty on those days when it does seem to fit, when I find myself getting lost in the white-collar business, the sterility of it all, when I find myself in a flow making decisions without thought feeling comfortable in my surroundings. I am wicked smart and can be dangerously manipulative. I know how to play the game.
But just because I can do something doesn't mean that I should be doing it. It feels...wrong. Like I am cheating myself. Like I am misrepresenting myself. Like I am not being true to who I really am.
Who the fuck that is, I have no idea
and I won't find her in the next 13 minutes before this session is terminated. I'll sign off now and continue my search. Perhaps she's in the Young Adult section taking herself way less seriously...
The fact of the matter is that I physically need to write. I'm desperately in love with the sound of my own words, how they flow from my fingertips so effortlessly and eloquently (at times) even when I write pissed off. I cannot seem to use that same sort of verbal free self-expression without fucking up my point and/or sticking my foot in my mouth. Unfortunately, I haven't been equipped with a vocal delete key (or a mute button, much to the dismay of those around me). I've tried blogging on myspace but I'm so over that. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I felt like I absolutely had to write again, doing so publicly and at the same time reaching a wider audience. Though I haven't yet decided whether or not I give a damn if anyone is reading. Or listening. Having it out there is good enough for me, and it means that I don't have to talk about it if I can write it down. I live in terrible fear of being constantly misunderstood and writing seems to convey my emotions and thoughts better than word vomit.
56 minutes.
Books I am checking out today? I went for "Toxic Work", "Time Off for Good Behavior: How Hardworking Women Can Take a Break and Change Their Lives", "You Don't Need a Title to Be a Leader", "Is Your Genius at Work?" (notice a trend?) along with "Generation Debt" and some fiction for good measure, Mark Haddon's "A Spot of Bother". Mark Haddon wrote a fantastic book a few years back entitled "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime." Great read - I highly recommend it.
My son just came over and asked me if I thought they had video games available for check-out. He failed to see the irony of that question.
Back to my title list. Certainly work is on my mind, as it is most hours, most days. I feel like I haven't decided what I want to do with my life yet and not quite convinced that I'm not meant to be doing what I am doing now. Confused? Try being me. Most days it isn't about the work itself as much as it is the work environment and my own behavior. I do admit when I manage to find myself with a light workload and I am able to put in a normal 9-5, the work itself begins to eat at me. What is it about my life that is causing me so much discontent? I must be careful what I wish for because one of my biggest fears is complacency. The major problem I have recently discovered is that I don't seem to understand what being an adult really means, and I certainly lack an ability to behave in adult-like manner if I don't get whatever anyone is fucking talking about.
By the way, apparently the library does offer video games for borrowing, though not at this location. The irony still stings but I am intrigued enough to take my son to Lackman to peruse the selection.
47 minutes.
Words like responsibility and committment and obligation leave me pale and sweaty, like the after-effect of too many tequila shots without the brief deliciousness on my tongue and general feeling of being bad-ass. Whatever happened to happiness and willingness and inspiration? Why should the road to self-fulfillment involve forcing myself to choose a path on which to drag my feet slowly along as I head for death? My dramatic interpretation of employment and career may be lost on most, but at least I'm colorful if anything. No one is forcing you to read this.
Are these books that I've checked out going to help me? What kind of help am I looking for? I have no freaking idea. I don't know what I am looking for, but I do realize that I won't find it in one of those books. My difficulty (prepare to hate me) is that I have all of these assets - not strengths exactly, because some of them are very raw and under-utilized - but I do possess a myriad of abilities any one of which would allow me to pursue a different career path. It's not set in stone for me, my path has never been obvious and I have finally come to the realization that it's because there isn't one. I don't take the road less traveled by - I pull my machete from my belt and hack the shit out of some brush and make my own fucking road. It's got so many twists and turns and dead-ends and alleyways that from an aerial view I imagine it looks as if three drunken farmers on riding mowers let loose in the field and decided to race. And got lost.
That's me. I'm lost. None of what I want to do with my life is related at all to work and career. As much as I love to write, as obsessed as I am with words and expression, I don't even know what I want to do with that. I don't know what I can do with that. Fiction, non-fiction, self-help, journalism, travel reviews, what the fuck? I don't know. If there was a way to investigate that without being penalized I would do it. And by "penalized" I mean fired from my job, arrested by the Kansas Department of Children and Family Services, chased down by bill collectors and ostracized by my friends and family. Well, not all of them because some of them are fucking nuts and admittedly enjoy living vicarously through me, even if it means laughing at my ridiculousness. A friend of mine (who writes one hell of a blog herself) recently left our shared place of employment to pursue that which makes her happy - writing. As she builds her porfolio she spends her time earning a proper wage a local restaurant/brewery. I could never do that. At least I don't think so. I'm not sure. Does it make sense to leave a salaried position with medical benefits in this economy while trying to raise a 10-year old by myself? Is that responsible?
But what is responsibility? I feel like too many times when we utter that word we are referring more to responsibility to society and others, rather than responsibility to ourselves. Is it more irresponsible to pursue a career path that will never quite "fit", performing it adequately and even better than most while still falling far short of my true life potential? When is it time to cut my losses with that machete, step back into the jungle and find a new way? Can I be truly happy carrying out the trajectory upon which I have been stumbling for the past three years? Somewhere along the way I hit adulthood without realizing it and I am doing a poor job at coping. I see folks younger than I am who seem to have it figured out. Are you freaking kidding me? In restless nights of sleep I lie awake by the noise in my head, wishing carelessly that I was a folk who had it figured out, so simple and one-dimensional with an IQ much lower than that I possess. I feel guilty and selfish and unappreciative that I have been given the opportunity to learn and grow in a corporate setting. But I feel the most guilty on those days when it does seem to fit, when I find myself getting lost in the white-collar business, the sterility of it all, when I find myself in a flow making decisions without thought feeling comfortable in my surroundings. I am wicked smart and can be dangerously manipulative. I know how to play the game.
But just because I can do something doesn't mean that I should be doing it. It feels...wrong. Like I am cheating myself. Like I am misrepresenting myself. Like I am not being true to who I really am.
Who the fuck that is, I have no idea
and I won't find her in the next 13 minutes before this session is terminated. I'll sign off now and continue my search. Perhaps she's in the Young Adult section taking herself way less seriously...
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