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Adulthood is tough beans. The toughest beans around. And basically by "adulthood" I just mean being responsible for your own life and being faced with those responsibilities directly. I won't take the "tough beans" away from children faced with terminal illnesses, older brothers and sisters that have to find ways to feed their little siblings and shelter them, and teenagers that hide their abused skeletons deep inside the closet. All these things make premature adults out of the young ones who should be cared for and gently tutored into their adult lives. But it doesn't always go that way. I am not in any way able to claim I was shoved into adulthood via some traumatic experience early on, but that doesn't mean it's any less difficult to manage emotionally and psychologically.
I am quite literally on the verge of having a anxiety attack for merely trying to discuss my job title at my current work. It's a small company, so labels aren't that clear and everyone fudges a little on the parameters of their job description. We all share the load. I get that.
But in a world so centered around career mapping, and corporate ladder climbing, and resume building, I want to make sure I'm not going to get screwed over down the road when I eventually wish to be employed as something other than a Mom once again.
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I never realized how completely random and ironic it is that Mark and I share such a similar plot-line of "life locations".
We were both born in Arizona; myself in Mesa, him in Tucson.
We both spent a lot of our growing up years in completely different states; Utah for me, Iowa for him (also ironic because my Dad's family is from Iowa!).
But then somehow we both end up back in Arizona and at the same high school.
But we never knew each other in high school.
Plus, we had all the same friends! Kind of. He was friends with choir people and came to all the concerts, I was in choir so I both knew his friends and spent a buttload of time with them.
So weird. Life is weird.
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Memories are funny things.
Some cars will always be certain people. A white cavalier is your best friend from high school and the many wild, crazy nights you spent adventuring in that same car.
A white pickup truck is your first boyfriend. You broke each others' hearts but life moved on. That one rickety four-door sedan is a gentle reminder of that random date who didn't mention the passenger door doesn't open from the inside and you were sure you would be murdered momentarily.
Pears are cool summer mornings on the wooden lawn chair with the peeling white paint that you'll pick at later, slurping down a styrofoam Cup of Noodles for lunch.
The hot sun beaming down mixed with the smell of dirt is all those initially boring but fruitfully adventurous afternoons spent perusing the tree/plant nurseries with your parents as they shop for landscaping shrubs.
Memories are total d-bags, too. They come at the worst times and they elude you when you need them most. They're flirtatious butterflies with independent minds of their own.
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I think I just realized something about myself. I tend to try too hard to figure myself out.
This is what we would call a conundrum.
I find one thing that works and end up doggedly pursuing that remedy so I'll never be sad again. Then when I inevitably find myself in a rut I dig deeper into the remedy, frustrated that it isn't working as well as it used to.
Usually I have to turn in the complete opposite direction to fix myself again.
I waste so much time fixating on what used to make me happy when if I just opened my dumb eyes and ears I might recognize that there is another option. It's seriously like leaning with my entire bodily force into a door that pulls open and being so determined that if I just push hard enough, it will open.
But if I just looked at the sign with the big letters "PULL" on it, I could stop struggling and open the dumb door on the beautiful hinges made especially just for opening doors.
It's so strange and frustrating that this feels like such an epiphany. It makes sense. Why can't I think about that before I waste so much time feeling lost and so unlike myself?
Maybe it's because I panic. I see the fear and sadness and depression coming and fight to get away from it. I panic and push against that door, not thinking to stop and look for a minute. Just a minute. Look at myself. Look at my life. Look at the things that give me those feelings of dread. Look at the things that uplift me. Choose the uplifting things. Forget about what everybody else is looking at and use my own eyes.
Maybe that's it, too. I'm pushing on the door and looking through goggles that only show me what everyone around me is seeing.
And! I'm trying to not show that I'm pushing. I'm too afraid to let anyone else know I'm struggling, that I try to nonchalantly, inconspicuously push all my strength against that stupid door while wearing my idiotic goggles and it's just futile and pointless.
Lightbulb.
Attempting to change is scary.
(art by Mei Lee)
All of a sudden it's been years since I've just laid in my room listening to music and just thinking random thoughts. Or just listened to music and read a book all night. Or listened to music for a couple hours as I fell asleep.
Basically I really need my iPod back. Or just figure out how to put all my music on my fancy smartphone. That's what it's for, right?I also need to enjoy the outdoors more. I miss feeling the sunlight. I see plenty of it, but I don't get to just soak it in and feel it on my face much. Three cheers for cancer, but I'm serious.
"Selling my soul for a nickel and dime, breaking my heart to keep making these rhymes."
Why thanks for summing up all my ramblings in two simple sentences...Peter Bradley Adams? Pandora is my fave.
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/shrug
Anybody know what the heck I was talking about in any of these?
The brain rambles what it rambles.
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