So fast

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.

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July

When I’m writing this, it is just past midnight on July 1.

Holy shit. July.

When I was seven, I wrote a poem–my first, ever–and titled it July. When I was twelve, I set my first novel entirely in July. And now, in 2018, I head into my busiest July ever. Busier than all those Camp Nanos I can’t even entertain the possibility of this year. Busier than any job or camp or anything.

I start July with a day of packing and frantic emails, then a week in Ireland, then three weeks straight of teaching summer school English, then Newport Folk Festival.

Then finally, in August, I get a breath.

I’ve been trying to attune myself to reiki, to feel the chi universe energy in my fingers, to make myself relax, but my jaw clenches up anyway and my stomach knots itself up and my forehead is perpetually cinched. My mouth is ablaze with canker sores, my face a minefield of acne. My body handles stress nearly as bad as my mind does.

I feel silly. All I’ve wanted for months and months and months was a job, and now that I have one I feel stage fright. That’s my best way of putting it. I’m scared.

July was always such a magical time as a kid, a month I spent all year dreaming about and writing about and waiting for with all my simple heart. Now…

healing?

You know what’s like, incredibly ironic?

I think I heal from overwork by…doing work.

Is that absolutely insane?

The only thing that seems to cure my stress is getting rid of my stressors. Maybe this is healthy, maybe not. I should really go back to therapy.

I’ve realized I get more stressed when I don’t do things than when I do. So I’ve been keeping busy, but not biting off more than I can chew. Doing tasks I can finish after starting.

Avoiding my unfinished novel…gah, see? Even this isn’t without guilt, without stress. I’m always not doing something.

I think it’s from growing up in such a stressful environment, pertaining to grades and expectations. Maybe it’s just because I have high expectations for myself. I don’t know. Maybe I’m a realist in an optimist world. Maybe I’m a real downer most of the time.

 

 

Wednesdays

I don’t mind Wednesdays. They’re right in the middle of things, and once you do it you only have two days left, right?

I’ve been trying to change this mentality. I don’t want to live for the weekend, especially since I spend most weekends working on school work anyway. It’s a cultural thing, I think–ever since grade school people have been looking forward to Friday, and we loved school back then. Well, at least I did.

It’s not a good feeling to have 5/7 of your days be days you don’t want to live.

I’ve been doing better with depression and anxiety, but I’ve had a bit of a setback recently. Maybe it’s a spring thing; some people clean ther attic, I fall into depression. 

I don’t know why it’s come back, and maybe there’s no reason. Sometimes it’s for no reason. I can’t help but think of reasons, though. I’m over stressed, as if that’s something new. I’m worried about my birthday, and the party that will have both sides of my newly divorced family in the same house for the first time in…years, wow, it’s been nearly two years. I’m worried about finding a job for the summer, one that pays but still lets me relax a bit more than I am now. 

The worst thing about returning depression is that just the fact that it’s returning is another reason to get depressed.

So, in spirits of fighting away the oncoming doom, I will love Wednesday like it’s Saturday. I’ll take the day’s hardships in stride. Today shall be a day I want to experience, and I’ll stay mindful and present and as happy as I can be.

Worst comes to worst, there’s only two days left.

No, you’re not allowed to be sad!

Am I allowed to complain about how stressful travel planning is? I’m so lucky. I’m so infinitely lucky, so is it even valid for me to be stressed out? To be a bit sad?

I’ve heard things over and over in my life, both to me and to others about how if you have it good, there can’t be anything bad to complain about. However, I’m a firm believer that just because one has a house, a family, a comfortable life, doesn’t mean they can’t be sad. Or stressed. Or depressed.

In fact, people constantly telling them how lucky they are may amplify that sadness.

I bring this up because I think I may be in the stage of travel where the culture shock gets to me. I changed all my clocks to military time and all my calendars to date/month/year, and this little change has had me railing. Not to mention I started all of my classes today, and had to book a flight with crashing internet, and had to deal with the library for the first time and smacking my head off the underside of my bunkbed and ahhh!

But I’m in a freaking castle in the Netherlands. I’m so lucky. I should appreciate it–I DO appreciate it! I appreciate it so much. I know I’m so lucky. I know I shouldn’t complain about these little things, or that I miss my family and friends.

That’s another thing–am I allowed to miss my family and friends? After all, I left them. It was my choice, nothing made me go. In fact, I fought hard to make this happen, and now I have the gall to complain about crashing internet and a bit of stress?

The irony, of course, is that this all just keeps raising my blood pressure. I’m sure I’m just overthinking. Travel is stressful, for everyone. A new place, a new country, is hard too. Being away from literally everyone you’ve ever met is challenging. Not to mention, starting a new semester of college. I suppose I’m allowed to be a little stressed.

But then again, it’s a castle. How could I possibly complain?

First anniversary

So, turns out today marks my first year since I registered with WordPress. I got an achievement for it and everything.

This blog has changed a lot over the year. At first it was deep and depressing and then it was day to day and then it was A to Z and then it was a bunch of things and now it’s…whatever this is. I guess just whatever I’m feeling, approximately once a day.

Jeez, not the best blog theme, is it?

I’m sure I will start up Conversation Starters and Short Fic Friday and other stuff soon. I’m just in a weird place and not ready for that sort of thing yet. It’s been a time. Not necessarily a bad time or a good time, just a time. And that time has required a lot of energy.

Anyway, before the notification that I’ve spent a year here, I was going to write a post about happiness. I’m writing a novella around the theme of happiness. What makes us happy, how do you find happiness and keep it, etc. I am working on it because it’s a problem I’m working on in my personal life as well.

I find it frustrating that my happiness is dependent on my surroundings. I wish I had an inner peace that could just let the outer stuff go. I want to go to sleep generally happy no matter the circumstance. Maybe that’s a lot to ask, but I find myself overly emotional (both positive and negative emotions) over events, people, etc. in my life. Minor things can make or break a day for me. I wish I wasn’t like that.

How can I make my happiness independent from the situation that I’m in? Is that even possible? I guess I don’t mean happiness, just peacefulness. I want to be peaceful.

Of course, I’m about the worst candidate for “peaceful” ever. I bounce my knees and move my hands around constantly. I can’t stand silence, because I get tinnitus, and I don’t like darkness, because I get visual snow, which I just recently learned isn’t something everyone has. Meditation makes me jittery. I’m even stressed out in my sleep–I grind my teeth so hard I’ve broken four night guards.

I guess it’s a good goal to strive for, anyway.

This blog has always been tied someway or another to introversion, and this is no exception. Introverts spend a lot of time doing introspection, and maybe this is what this new leg of my journey is about. Introspection, concerning happiness and peacefulness and a general sense of love. Not a bad new year resolution.

Undissected

I have a terrible habit of picking at my cuticles. I often do it without thinking, when I’m meant to be writing or listening in class. I get lost in my thoughts and suddenly I’m bleeding out my fingertips.

I think I’ve always had this habit, or one like it. I’ve had times when I’ve bitten my nails instead or cracked my knuckles incessantly, but it’s always something to do with my hands. I think part of it is instinct—perhaps removing the imperfections in my fingers is brought on by some deep drive to pick out bugs. Since there’s no bugs, I transferred that drive to my cuticles.

However, I’m willing to bet that it’s closer to my strive for perfection. I always try to make things perfect, especially when I’m writing (which is when a large percentage of this picking occurs). If my hands aren’t perfectly smooth, maybe that subconsciously tells me that my writing isn’t perfect either. Of course, the ultimate poetic irony is that I strive so hard for perfection I end up hurting myself instead. I bite my nails to the beds, I nip at the cuticles until they’re raw, I crack and recrack my knuckles until I can’t even feel what’s making the sound. I also do this in my writing. I rewrite and rewrite until I lose all confidence.

Then again, maybe it’s just a habit. A way to procrastinate. Writing this, I’ve been hyper-aware of the amount of times I break writing in the middle of a sentence (or word) to scratch my face or examine my nail beds. I do it without thinking or even making the conscious action to do so, but before I realize it there I am, staring at my hands.

Maybe it’s a way I deal with stress. Maybe it’s a way I cause myself stress.

Mostly, it’s making me wonder what else I do without realizing it. Do I miss important things? Do I put myself on autopilot too much? When I trust myself to work without 100% mental capacity, my body ends up slouching, I end up biting my fingers, I end up daydreaming and bouncing my knee and browsing YouTube when I should be being productive.

Is this me knowing when I need a break to be healthy, or is it me just taking a break to be lazy? What is this autopilot, anyway?

Well, it doesn’t matter much. This whole post was a bigger procrastination than any nail-biting could be! Maybe some things are best left undissected.