a year in review, sort of

It’s been almost a year and half and I finally found the perfect song. After feeling the impact of every sad/love/sad-love song like it was written just for me but knowing it wasn’t—there was no love; god, was there absolutely no love—I found it, and it’s bittersweet in every cliché way, and it’s funny how little it all crosses my mind now except every now and again and when I talk about it, it’s not like stabbing myself in the chest, and do we ever really learn from anything, anyway, or are we—am I—doomed to go on and on and on like we do, hurting people in our way, getting hurt by people who put themselves in our way, or maybe they didn’t ask to get in our way at all. But we can’t stop, cutting a swath on our way to what? to success? to accomplishment? to freedom? I hope you don’t end up in a ditch somewhere, but I guess you got what you wanted, and I finally feel free and happy and I wasn’t listening at the Christmas church service, but the one thing I did hear was when the pastor said that it’s almost a new year—and once it’s here, there’s no point in worrying about everything that happened in the year past; it’s over; no point in dwelling on it, and he’s right, and there are so many things I’m tired of dwelling on and there are some things you have to do and be done with and it’s hard, certainly, but it’s Over. and Done. and if they weren’t you surely would have buried me by now. Germany probably saved my life or at least my sanity. If I hadn’t of had to slow down I don’t know where I would be right now or how burned out or how strung out or fried—I couldn’t have kept going, and as I’ve said more than once in the last 48 hours, both teary-eyed and drunkenly in the dark and sleepy-eyed and laughing in the sunshine, this year has to be better than last.

I’m finally coming to terms with the idea/fact/concept that I’m not the same as I was, or maybe I’m still the same but I’m allowing myself to feel and be the things I never let myself before. I worked so hard to be so tough, and so strong, but I don’t think I ever was, but I’m tired of berating myself for everything I think I shouldn’t be because, as it all turns out, I’m soft. And I’m weak. Metaphorically and literally, and I’ve got scraped up knees to prove it. We get fucked, we get fucked with and we get fucked up but I guess we do learn at some point to know better, or at least our reaction time gets a little quicker each time and maybe the universe wants to balance itself or it’s just playing a terribly slow game of see-saw since the end of 2010 started to slide down and down and down and the end of 2011 started to tip up and up and maybe not quite so up, but after all, she sings, it won’t take long to fall in love, and starting the first few days of the new year with the people I love, nursing a hangover; eating chilaquiles and cinnamon rolls; sitting in a tattoo shop; laying on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, is all I really ever wanted to do.

"are you on your period or something?"

Cramps got you down?

Feeling shitty because your uterine lining is falling out?

Just remember, you’re the gender that gets paid less in the workplace, harassed and belittled for simply being your gender and told you’re crazy, irrational and silly on a regular basis.

So cherish this moment.

An analogy is like a writing desk

I have my reasons for the wall. Some people have gotten inside it simply because I opened the gate, and they strolled on in like it was an open house, kicking stuff over and knocking things around and generally fucking shit up and never paying for the damage. Some people have tried to pry their way in, removing brick by brick by brick, only to find I’m adding more bricks as they take them away. And some are in the entryway, standing somewhat awkwardly with their coat in their hands, wondering if they should get comfortable or just put their coat back on and leave. Some people talked to me from across the moat, listened to me, shared things with me, maybe they swam across once or twice just to hear me better, and eventually were invited inside. Sure, maybe they accidently knocked over a lamp once or twice, but I can get over a lamp. I can’t remember how some people have gotten inside because it seems like they’ve always been there, giggling and whispering and playing and crying with me since before I can remember.
I have my reasons for the wall. But I wish I didn’t have to have it in the first place. I wish I never built it. I wish you never built yours, either.
We all have our reasons for being guarded, some more than others. And it’s not a terrible idea to have some alarm systems in place. But I’m tired of keeping it up, of worrying about it. Bored, even. I don’t know what it means to not have those walls up; how to do that. But people aren’t paying attention to each other, anyway. We’re all walling ourselves away so that—what?—we just end up alone in a room by ourselves.

I’m tired of feeling delicate.
I’m tired of pretending I’m not.
I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.

Your Assistant girl

Remember when I had that brilliant idea to start that one work-related blog and I was all excited about it, and then promptly forgot about it? Me, neither.

-warts

I'm a worrier.

You've heard of us before. Your mother or father is probably one, maybe your weird aunt cindy who collects cow figurines--but you know who we are. We're the ones who fidget in our seats, crossing and uncrossing our legs; the ones who do that annoying clicky thing with our fingernails when we're anxious; the ones who ask you a million questions? about when it's going to be done? who's taking care of it? if you have everything you need? is there anything i can do?

We can't help it. I can't help it. Half the time I think I'm not actually worried or anxious, I'm just so habitually inclined to demonstrate the mannerisms. (Which is to say, I'm probably deluding myself into thinking I'm more laid-back than I really am, or I'm severely misunderstood, and most people are not, so ergo, I'm delusional.)

I don't know when it happened, or where it started. I don't know where to pinpoint the dawn of my obsessive tendencies. Are we born high-strung or do we just end up that way? And that's what it is, too--worry is just obsession. And both (or "it," if we can agree they're the same thing) are tiring. Tiptoeing is exhausting. Framing your questions the right way, wording your email just so, making every move with determined hesitation because Don't Fuck This Up runs on repeat on a banner across your brain like a stock ticker or a digital display in Times Square.

At some point you fuck up anyway. That's normal, it's natural and it's unavoidable. But for you, the worrier, it's not. Because other people fuck up. But you're careful. You're detailed. You're good at multitasking. And you worked goddamn hard to cultivate your precision, your craft.

But what's the point? If it's inevitable that your perfection can't last (and was never there to begin with), why bother? The stress you hold in your back and neck and shoulders isn't benefitting anyone, certainly not you. Your carefulness can just as easily be maintained. So you know what, go ahead, let's grant ourselves permission:
We can chill the fuck out.

joshua

The desert was our playground.
We ran, we jumped, we climbed, we hid, we wandered away and back and crawled through crevices and scaled boulders.
We dug our fingers into the dirt and watched giant beetles crawl into our hands.
We left our bodies behind. We left our worries, our anxieties, our apprehensions and our deadlines.
We played make-believe. We played hide-and-seek. We hopped from rock to rock and on your mark, get set, go, we raced across the sand to see who was the fastest. We walked with our arms at our sides like penguins and we sprawled out on the ground to soak up the sun.
We got lost and we got found. We came back alive. And we ate kebabs.