in and out of doors
should be attached to alarms
laugh because they’re not
in and out of doors
should be attached to alarms
laugh because they’re not
owen and jim are absorbed in whatever
jim’s working for like,
an insurance company?
and he’s getting annoyed at his boss asking him to order his groceries for him.
jim has the body of a man when he wants it.
when he’s playing dungeons and dragons
you believe he would really use a sword to kill.
when he’s just being himself
you doubt whether he’d know which end to hold.
for such a big dude
with such a well-kept beard
he’s rather immature
when he can afford to be.
i couldn’t tell jim this stuff. he wouldn’t get it.
he’d be too awkward
and then run off.
if i was a character in a novel
my “surface” journey is easy to figure.
i would be working to get out of this abusive house
and settle myself into a healthy life.
my “inner” journey
would be to get myself out of my abusive mindset
and ease my anxiety
and grow as a person
into a confident young woman
i’m still caught in the rising action, i guess.
the resolution is a whole plot line away.
For 2018 I decided to write a bullet journal, which obviously didn’t last long. However, I liked looking back on the 10 or so pages I did do. They were all goals. Books I should read, movies I should see, things I should do. A list of friends I had already, as well as space to write in new friends I make along the way. I liked crossing out the boxes I drew about a year ago. I didn’t get to them all, but I got to quite a few.
On one of the pages, I wrote: Word of the Year: Renaissance.
I think I did quite a bit of that. Renaissance means “rebirth,” as I learned in 7th grade history, and I did try to be “reborn” as well as I could. Things truly have changed, and I do have a totally new life.
For 2019, I think my word of the year will be “Release.” I have changed my life for the better. Now, it is time to let go of all the pain of the past.
It is going to be a challenge, but a worthy one. I want to be able to forgive and forget, to move on, to let it go.
Hm. Let it go. I teared up the first time I saw that scene from Frozen. I watched it over and over until I knew all the words–and I was about 17. I was so inspired that this person could, well, let it go. Move on past her pain and her depression and her awful parents. Maybe she’s a good role model. A little “basic bitch” to look up to a Disney princess, but whatever. I’m done adjusting my personality to fit the molds of others.
I need to stop indulging in escapism and bottling up. I need to learn how to feel my feelings, acknowledge them, and let them go. I need to learn how to let go, how to move on, how to accept that people don’t change and things don’t change and all I can change is myself. I want to be able to let it all go. I want to be able to have my mind free of worry, both about the past and about the future.
My worrying is the biggest threat to my life. It threatens to ruin job and relationships all the time. I need to get a hold on it, and the best way to do that is to learn how to release.
Release. 2019. Release.
I always roll my eyes when people talk about “how fast this year went by.”
Because it didn’t.
January was so long ago. I went to Ireland in June and that was ages ago. I taught ski lessons last year and that was so. long. ago.
But also, it did, at the same time, go by fast.
I don’t know. I think I mainly hate it because it’s so obvious. You know? It’s a cliche. Everyone says it every year. Maybe, turns out, a year just isn’t very long. Maybe that’s why it never feels very long.
I have a week and a half left of a job I love. Then it’s the holidays, then gig work until possibly September, possibly forever. That’s life, now. That’s how years go by, now. In a single breath.
I’ve inspired a kid so much he bought me an ornament and a package of cherry turnovers (for some reason). I really like teaching. I’m glad I’m pursuing it.
I’m glad I’m pursuing a lot of things.
My book is almost ready, and that fact makes me want to throw up. I can’t write a query. It’s the hardest page to write out of this whole process.
I wonder if my anxiety is actually under control? I just assume it is. I should check in with myself more, but I’m too busy worrying to do that.
I’m too busy. And yet not busy at all. Just like how this year was fast, and slow.
When I leave stressful days behind, I mutter to myself, “kill me.” As if the stress isn’t already doing that. I leave a bad class, then mouth “kill me” to the bathroom mirror. I get in my car, I sing “murder me now” to the tune of the radio. It’s not that I want to die. I don’t want to die, I’ve never wanted, actually, to die. It’s like my anxiety is speaking to me with my own lips. Kill me, it says. Kill me, I say.
They never tell you how much of a teacher’s day is spent pretending to ignore the fact that all the kids would rather be elsewhere. Then again, so would I. So maybe that’s not so bad.
The hardest thing about life after school is that no one cares about what you do, anymore.
I don’t even have a permanent job yet and I already see how little people care.
Oh, she’s making money biweekly? She’s good.
A lack of tests and papers and structure has made working on my own projects all the harder. I feel less obligated to care about myself when no one else seems to.
Of course, this is what I’ve always wanted.
And it’s the challenge, too. It’s why so many people have rooms crafted of half-finished projects and half-eaten meals. Tomorrow is always there, and no one cares more about you than yourself.
No one cares more about my novel than me, and if I feel okay putting it on the back burner then the rest of the world is definitely okay with it.
Gah. I’m just having a bad mental day. You know I am, because I only ever write on this blog anymore when I need a diary. Maybe that’s always what it was. It started out when I was starting therapy again, after all.
It’s not a bad thing, needing a diary.
I want to write.
Even my sister, who’s never read a word, told me that I need to get over my fears and do it, edit, send it off to people.
I’ve sent it off to people.
Every time I look at my novel I feel both better and worse. I touch up a few things, take out a word here, add a word there, make a few more connections from here to there. It’s like weaving a hammock, and every little knot makes it more structurally sound.
And now that I can lay in it, I’ve taken to weaving in flowers. Dying the rope. Making it pretty, not just serviceable. And I’m happy.
And I’m locked.
My stomach has been churning at top speed. My fingernails have been bitten away to shards. I’m breaking out in welts.
I need to get this book out.
It’s not ready.
That’s the thing, it’s not ready. It’s not good enough. I’ve been writing since I was in second grade and I’ve been writing books since I was twelve and this is my tenth year writing novels, my eighth novel, and it’s not good enough, not yet. But what can I do to improve?
I know it’s good. But it’s not great. It’s ignorable, and I don’t want that. This is something I have been putting every ounce of my being into, every drop of my soul.
I have agonized over every paragraph, and yet it’s not good enough.
I know it will never be perfect in my mind, but my heart won’t agree.
I must be a designer, not just an architect.