Today's trip to CUOC was... not stimulating. I went there, pleaded my circumstances and have to wait like all the others. Thursday I will know more. Today I realized that living in the moment isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes it is best to focus on the future...
I've only just realize that all of the wonderful conclusions I come to are for nothing. All of the things I think about, and the solutions to problems and the fastest path through the maze... They are all nothing.
I have already discussed that I think a lot. Well, it turns out that is a lie. I don't think. I worry. I have managed to get the anxiety issues under control and yet I still worry. Always. About stupid, stupid shit. I worry because I have a lack of information. All the time. I worry that there are too many puzzle pieces to make it all fit and create a pretty picture. I have literally wasted years of my life worrying about things that never come to pass, or are completely survivable when they do. I worry because the human psyche is fragile. So many things impact it, and I see people on a daily basis suffering from a damaged psyche. Self-image, complexes, phobias - you name it. These people have such a hard time living life and loving and being who they are and I never once thought that I was one of them.
The human psyche is not fragile. It is durable. There are people you meet every single day that have suffered incredible hardships. People who were horrifically abused, people who were attacked, neglected, scapegoated and just wronged their entire lives, and yet they still go on, to happy lives no less! For a long time I thought I was one of those people. I am not. I am perpetually worried that the inevitable will happen and when it does I won't react.
I have created a reality that revolves around pain. Masked in the most beautiful costume of love. I stress, worry and break down over nothingness, and in turn create discord with my little family, and probably my reality of not-haves. There has been a part of me for the last few months worrying incessantly that I am wasting my life. That I am not doing enough good in the world and that I am not what I should be. What I am really doing is what I have done my entire life. I am rushing things. Ever since I was little I remember wanting to be older, to be different, for this life event or that life event to take place, and almost all of them did before their time. I rushed my way through everything, and at 25, I feel so damn old.
I have lived so many things in such a short period of time that I forget I have not really lived at all. I spend my days worrying about what I should be doing instead of actually doing them, and fearing the consequences of the most minor things (i.e. my car breaking down and not getting back up) What would happen if my son didn't get to play outside today? This week? I am starting to think he will survive, and not become a mule. What would really happen if my car broke down and I couldn't get it to start back up? I'd call people. If no one answered I would walk. Walking has saved my life many a time.
All I wanted to do today was enjoy my time off. All I wanted to do was work on my sister's Christmas present (I think she might actually read this so I can't tell any of you, but it's awesome) What I did instead was I helped my neighbor rake leaves, for 3 hours. My neighbor's are elderly and he had a leaf blower and was kind enough to blow all of the leaves from my yard, so in turn I repaid his kindness with some of my own. It felt good. It felt good to work for no other reason than to help. To not worry, to live my life doing what I do naturally. Help. (and not fucking it up this time)
I honestly don't do it enough, and I don't know why. I spend so much time thinking that I give my loved ones as much as I can, but do I really?
Here is the big kicker. I worry sometimes that being married has changed me. Not as much as motherhood, but that I let little pieces of myself fall away and I have no idea why. Especially the things my husband loves about me most. They are just not there, and what has replaced it is worry. I let my art go and I still mourn that loss. I have no idea how to get it back. I don't feel like I can draw like I used to, I don't feel like if I had the paints and pallets and canvases that I would be able to paint like I used to. I don't know where it all went. I worry that my brazen attitude has left me, my boldness, my running into gunfire headfirst nature is lost...
I feel like I am constantly fighting a battle with no resources. I don't know how to combat the mental stuff. The massive phobia that I carry around that something is wrong with me and I am so scared that someone will figure it out. That I am not acceptable. I am not normal, I am poison. I know in my mind that these things are not true, I know that what I am up against is the greatest evil in the world, even worse than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I am fighting a disease of the mind that some how, some where took a foothold when I was weak. Have I let this grow inside of me because I don't know what it is to live without it?
I always used to think that God brought me to people. Maybe he brings them to me. I do not know what I would be without them. I don't know if I have ever stood alone. I've never desired the spotlight (in adulthood) I learned that credit will come to me, regardless of who is in the limelight. I have grown to be this person who slips in and out of realities to be a different person from the same central source. Like an actress' change of costume, I am another character altogether. I don't know the meaning, I don't know why I am here, and maybe it is time I owned up to that. I don't know what I am supposed to be doing at this point in my life, and for once, maybe that is ok. Am I too old, or too young? I think I have been reliving the good ole days with a tint too rosy. What good is it to me to dwell on what was, or never had been? What good will come of my mistakes when I repeat them?
I feel so old because I have lived so much in such a very short time. Yet... yet, raking leaves with my neighbor today, who'd been married 50+ years, with mistakes of his own, he survived. He lived, and he and his wife are happy, kind and generous. I do not see them waiting for death. I see them counting their blessings one by one every day. By the time I made it that far in my life I will be in my 70's. Such a far off way. All I do is spend my days worrying for an ending that already came and went.
The story is over. But there is always another book.
Good Night All! God Bless you!