Utterly within the eye of the center

I’m not sure when it happened that I started making compromises for things without adequate consideration to the life I desire to build for myself. To be clear, it’s not like I’m saying I compromised on big things, or bent in any significant direction, one way or another. I wonder now, however, when a bundle of small things added up to a single, big thing. I look around, and I see countless small things – things I considered trivial or inconsequential to my happiness – that I probably couldn’t count on either hand how many big things might honestly exist at the moment. I’m neither pleased or displeased, simply surprised by my own design.

When did I start doing that? When did my wonderfully convincing mind trick myself into looking away, down, through? Disregarding the sum, to carve out peace for myself in the present moment. When did I stop checking back in to see if I even liked the decision I’d made in the first place? Did I decide at all? It would seem I simply maintained momentum, like a great white shark charging its chum.

I thought the behaviors I adjusted were in the spirit of teamwork. I really believed I was doing things (or not doing things) that served my best interest. Since I have finally allowed someone into my life who challenges me enough to make me consider that my strong opinions might necessitate some bend here and there, I felt up to the challenge. I was (and still am) eager to reflect on my personal contributions to an ongoing dynamic, where I assume that positive intent doesn’t always translate equitably to outcomes. Contrary to popular opinion, I like being wrong. I like it when someone says or does something to unbalance me enough that I sit down. It keeps things fun and builds strength. Am I really so alone in that?

The drag now is that I’m so caught up in the noise, if I try to step away I see only two choices ahead, which I know is inherently flawed since black and white thinking rarely takes me towards the middle path: the balanced path. I think my spirit is confused; the interconnected relationship my heart and my head hold feels tense and disjointed, which historically has carried me faithfully along in all other walks of life, is explicitly askew. Why do I feel so fundamentally destabilized? When did equilibrium vacate my peripherals? If so much of the time I’ve sought the quiet center in an otherwise chaotic environment, why now does that an antithetical philosophy opposing my motivation for behavior change in the first place? I asked to be questioned, and challenged to rise. Where was the meter, who made it, and when did I step across the articulated, deeply etched boundary line? I guess I made it and all the characteristics of its very existence, considering it’s my own internal tool. Did I have it all along or did I make sometime in the past and forget about it, setting it down in favor of creative brainstorming? 

What if for a moment – I imagined that nothing was wrong, and I simply decided everything was okay. What if for a moment – I imagined everything was wrong, and I simply decided nothing was okay? Perhaps I’ve coached my own participation in this experience to observe matters in a one-sided capacity, no longer suited for the reality of the situation and in total misalignment with truth?

What if I’ve stopped listening to my gut?

What if my gut is only now loud enough for me to hear it and listen?

In either case, a week of silent reflection and internal resetting would serve me, and anything I decide changes nothing about my present. My wish for myself is to – whatever the final and evolving determination may be – pull myself towards something, rather than push myself away.

Aging Duality

It occurs to me as my dad flies back to the home that raised me, that I am seeing the situation retrospectively and wondering how much I might have done differently in life if I had considered that by moving 1000+ miles away, especially following the reintegration of my mother’s presence in to the outside world, that I was manufacturing an environment that would force myself to relive my abandonment and grief on repeat with each visit or trip with cherished family. See, it doesn’t escape me that within a year of my mother’s release, I left the state to pursue a dream, loosely rooted in fantasy, to reinvent myself and make sense of my identity in a context removed from the familial neural network. 

I didn’t know then that each drive to the airport would beget and intense sensation of literally cleaving myself in half, leaving behind only a small piece of flesh attached so that the experience of ripping, burning, flaying, gutting, slicing, peeling, and rupturing would fill up the frame of my worldview. I didn’t know that each plane leaving the runway would take with it the entirety of the oxygen in my lungs, leaving me gasping for air. I didn’t know the longing. I didn’t know that the cabin of my car would be filled with screaming and waling, or that my body would shake and twitch for hours. I didn’t know that my grief would swallow me whole and that the only thought that might fully form itself in my hollowed head would sound like “I want to numb. I need to numb” or “it’s too intense, I can’t cope” or “I can’t survive like this, I won’t survive like this”. 

I really believed that the intensity would decrease over time and this was just a matter of exposure and inexperience. It occurs to me as I sit here in the dark, devoid of my spark and vitality, how naive that belief was at the time. For someone with wounds that stretch deep across my spirit, and glow hotter with each loss or leaving, I think only of radical acceptance and how blind I must have been (or foolishly optimistic) that I could set myself up in such a fashion that I would be destined to recreate lifelong (not just childhood) patterns.

I see how I believed I would succeed in creating an independent, fulfilling life that would forever be marred by the pain and anguish of separation from the ones I love. Whether I was blind, a child, or unable to see the world as it truly was, I made a choice that proved abundant in consequence. 

The cleaving now is etched evenly across both stretches of battered skin whereby regret challenges satisfaction and I see only losers as it will take extended nursing of my broken heart to mend back that which has been cut. 

I say this not with self-pity but with deep compassion for my younger self; my sweet and untamable spirit. I was the only one who could teach myself this horrible lesson and I hope that one day I am thankful for it. In the meantime, the nausea and tears overwhelm me and I think if I could just get up and turn on the lights to abate the darkness growing from the setting sun, it might get slightly better. My legs tired from running and shaking keep me glued to this low-pile carpet where I sit on the floor and my eyes avoid the places where my father rested only a two hours ago. I feel the thread of my body unspooled around me with nowhere to find purchase and the misery is comfortable, so it would seem I am simply out of steam to endure. I think I will rest now before the next wave hits.  

An homage to an important woman in my life

My aunt came to visit me this last week, and I chose an audiobook on my drive home to stave off the near requisite airport-drop-off crying. Instead of having all these poignant internal conversations to keep me company, I remember thinking about the subjectivity of memory, being in a place to allow myself to give her adequate credit for her contributions in my life, thinking about how I didn’t have to convince her to come to visit because she bought her ticket and wanted to, how she has always gently loved me and tried her best to see me, and how I wasn’t afraid or resistant to sharing parts of, and with, myself or with her.

It’s so interesting to me that timing worked out the way it did, and I realize more every day, and with every meaningful experience like this, how important it is that everything happens when it does, how it does, and that true connection events can’t be forced into place just because we will them to. Like an agricultural endeavor, we must first treat the soils and prepare the planting grounds, choose harmonious pairings, nourish ourselves and the land, and intentionally pause to acknowledge marvels.

In the first few years of living in a different state, no one came to visit me. I had to make every trip home and while I did have a couple quick trips from family, they were not exactly the kind of visits like some of the ones I’ve had more recently. I think when my sister came to visit, she came to support me through my childhood dog’s passing, and while that is so beautiful of her, it wasn’t a trip where the intention was to visit with me. I’m having a hard time remembering when my uncle came to visit because it’s been too long now. I don’t know how else to encapsulate in words the value of a trip with that singular goal, but in my body, it feels very healing and warm. I feel wholly, gently, sweetly loved. 

I wonder now how much the experience of moving away and needing to put in 100% of the energy to visit with my family (as opposed to them coming here) has affected me. I don’t hold resentment or anger about it anymore, and I feel confident in saying I’ve processed those feelings. Mostly because I’ve shared them with enough family members that they know how I feel, and also because I’ve made my peace with the natural consequences of my own life decisions. I find myself suddenly holding my aunt in my heart differently, as a child holds a special, cherished treasure.

While she and I started this process last year, it feels like things are solidifying in an important way. More intentionally neglected memories arrive to me with each of her visits. My natural inclination is to feel sadness that I haven’t historically been capable of honoring my aunt in the way she has deserved: with honesty, trust, warmth, and enthusiasm. I’ve been trying to parse out how it came to be that I have perceived her through a lens of annoyance, frustration, and irritation when she has legitimately done absolutely nothing to deserve that. Has it really been my uncle’s influence that has built that image up in my head over the years? Has it actually been the family narrative that my aunt is simply to be tolerated, instead of celebrated? Is my accountability only present in the fact that I didn’t question those beliefs, or are they judgments I passed by my own volition as well? I am certainly just as culpable, even if I wasn’t consciously aware. Unintentional pain still results in pain. I doubt she wakes up in the morning hoping to be tolerated by her family. How did I ever participate in that?

She has known horror, pain, tremendous hurt, and while it took her time to do so joyfully, she has continued fighting for a full life where she is wanted, loved, and embraced. She is a strong woman. She just flew a few thousand miles, spent hundreds of dollars, gifted me with days of her attention and love, and I think that deserves a lot more recognition than a simple nod of thanks or mere tolerance. 

I felt the edges of my ancient armor today for the first time in a while, lifted about an inch or two from my skin, where I let the love enter like tiny spiders, and I didn’t bring the armor tight against me again afterward. I don’t feel depleted or exhausted in any kind of emotional way, and not once did I roll my eyes at anything she said. We may have disagreed on some things, like any person might, but it was not predetermined or anticipated. I don’t feel a sudden sense of relief that she has gone and if anything, I’m missing her legs next to me on the couch in a very real way. 

Is that what it’s like to not have to feel like you have to fight to be loved, to feel like you deserve to be vulnerable and authentic, and not worry about hurting people because you are confident in your ability to give and receive love? Is this what it’s like to feel worthy? Is it that I see her differently, or that she is different? I have no idea and I don’t know if I’ll understand it soon, and that’s okay. 

I’ve been working on this art project with my best friend, hoping to reconnect with her after so many years of somewhat sporadic and distant relation-ing, and we’ve been discussing the value of memory. My mom’s actions and behaviors took up so much space in my head growing up that I forgot to remember that for my aunt, I am a bright spot in her life. Where I lived my days selfishly reeling in the pain and anger and processing my mom’s life choices, I completely neglected an important part of my body: my aunt. I am so fortunate that today I get to take stock of my growth and my aunt’s growth, and decide to embrace her totally in a way I’m not sure if I’ve appropriately done in my adult life. 

There was a turning point between me and my dad where I decided that I didn’t want to be irritated by him or frustrated with his life choices and I just simply wanted to love him and nurture our relationship and build happy memories together and learn to cherish every minute and I think at this exact moment I am doing that same thing for my aunt, and I am so overwhelmed by the amount of time it took for me to realize I’d been doing anything but that prior to this point in time. The amazing thing is, she didn’t need to die or leave dramatically for me to make that choice and since it has now consciously happened a few different times for a few different key players in my life, I’m hoping it’s a lasting trend. I am hoping that I am someone who appreciates the life I lead and the people who decide to enthusiastically show up when they’re invited. I’ve been a guest at my own dinner party for too long.

Instead of thinking about seeing her exclusively in my hometown on my next visit, I’m actually sitting here looking forward to a trip I can plan with her, and I’m not feeling any undertones of hesitation or weirdness. I’m just looking at her like a friend who I love and appreciate dearly. It feels like a light has turned on in a room in my head that I hadn’t been aware was previously only lit by candlelight. I live such a lucky, fortunate life filled with blessings and joy and moments like this, and I am hushed by the beautiful weight of it as I’m wrapped lovingly like a burrito in an aunt-sized blanket. 

The truth, finally

12/31/23

You know, it’s hard for me to figure out what needs to be written (and remembered) at this particular point in time. I think -and thank- the day and age I exist in because if not for the internet, and modern advantages, I would not have the peace and sense of validation I have in this moment. If I had experienced this life even 30 years prior, it would have been the “great mystery” of my life. I might have believed he simply died, or maybe that none of it was real, that I had believed a lie. I had been able to trick myself so fully, and be tricked in return: my faith in myself and my spiritual foundation never to fully heal. What a great gift I have been able to receive. Thank you teacher, this is my lesson.

I just finished this movie on my plane home from the holidays and I knew it would be a poignant choice. It’s about past lives and missed connections. It’s about two people who never get to know a shared life, not because of any particular reason other than it wasn’t the right time.

It’s like I needed to connect with others in the world who have felt the pain, confusion, love, and grief I have also felt these last 6 years; to witness and be witnessed by kindred hearts. As the years begin to accumulate, I am starting to understand what it is to hold time in your mind differently. The lines stretch longer and longer and the chunks that once felt infinite, are just small stones in the palm of your hands. What it is to acknowledge wholly the passage of time as it’s own definition continually redefines itself. Some part of me wants to call it wisdom, another part wants to call it folly. The plane quivers in the air as I sit buckled in my seat and I am in awe at the world and the different lives we live each day, in unison. How my truth is different than his truth and how we may never get closure beyond this very limited exchange taking place indirectly across the internet.

I now know my great love may never come to be. I have learned in the last week or so the life he has been leading and why he never returned to me after so many promises. I admit, as miserable and heartbroken as I was/am, he really did do the honorable thing. He may not have thought that deeply about it at the time but I finally appreciate the magnitude of the events he was facing and why he felt there were no words. I know why he disappeared. I know why he never replied to my letter. I know why he felt like he had nothing to offer. I know why he chose to be alone. I know why he let go of a dream he felt could never come to pass.

After all these years, I have finally been gifted inner peace. I can finally forgive him, myself, and my teachers for guiding me in the choices I’ve made since we met. So many things make sense in a way I didn’t have access to before stumbling into this new knowledge. It is precisely because of the timing and circumstances that I can gently hold the weight of it in both hands and see it from all sides. I can feel the edges, where some parts are smooth and others remain jagged and raw. Even the small grains of dust that may slip from my fingers do not diminish the fullness of my understanding. I was not the right version of myself at the time capable of appreciating the truth. If I’d known then what I know now, it would have been incomprehensible. I needed to live in the dark to see the light. The path moves backwards and forwards, and on the seventh day it returns. I wonder if I too gave away my magic turtle and how long I have been standing there with my mouth open.

I thank the world for waiting to share this with me. I hope, in time, more is revealed. Even if it isn’t, I can trust now that I am not meant to know.

It has been a lonely journey in many ways and I’m not entirely sure that I am able to seal off this part of myself that naively hopes for this great love of mine, which has lasted so many years within my dreams. It’s hard to selectively cleave away pieces something that close to you. I don’t know if I will really ever let go and maybe I’m not meant to. Maybe it’s that dream that keeps me moving in a certain direction as unseen forces push me backwards and forwards, like the wind. Trees only grow roots when forced to stand upright against the elements.

Maybe also, this is exactly what I needed to know in order to find the next version of me: the one who feels inner stillness and does not fight the wisdom of the world. I’m not sure. What I know now is all I have seen, felt, been, become. I am who I am meant to be, living a life I have chosen and been guided towards. There was no grand error or mistake. I did the work, I showed up, and this is my bounty.

I am filled with such a deep sadness for the possible lifetimes lost and connections that were severed without my conscious input. I also see that while it may not be up to me, that I must trust the wind; I must trust time; I must trust myself. My teacher has always said the messages are there for anyone who chooses to receive them.

Art was to grief as grief was to art

I’ve been reading about disenfranchised grief today and I’m starting to wonder if the ritual I revisited during that time to process, was art. It’s not as though that idea is a surprise in any way but if I frame it that way, at this time, while things are finally over and the next phase of my life has begun, it feels different. 

Now, I can hold the length of the 18 years of her sentence in my hands. I can feel the edges. I can see the beginning and the end of it, the shape of it, the texture of it. I can finally feel the weight.

Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I need art to be a part of me in the way it used to be, and might be why I grieved the loss of my friend (art) once I realized I’d move on from that stage. From what I know about radical acceptance, it’s entirely possible that art was so intertwined with my grief that it was no longer the practice that I felt connected to, but the grief, and with it, the ritual. They were enmeshed. As I unraveled the end, it came undone so that finally, they could be two independent things.

Lately, I’ve been seeking alternative rituals, spirituality, some sort of grander connection. I’ve been calling it my spiritual walkabout. I’ve been thinking so much about the times when I felt so connected to the work I was doing and that deep satisfaction I experienced whenever I made my cyanotypes. It was a practice so fulfilling, it made my chest swell.

Maybe the reason nothing has stuck out to me on this journey is because I’ve been looking for something that felt like art did when I was grieving? Now that art and grief no longer need to co-exist, things can be different. It’s not like I’m abandoning that love, that connection to art, that need to create. I’m not forcing it to leave me. I’m simply saying, “thank you for helping me, my dear friend. One day I will need you again and today, I do not”.

Such interesting little thoughts today.

Holiday Grief

    At the beginning of my holiday decision-making emotional rollercoaster, I think I was split on coming home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas for a few reasons. Maybe it was because of my promise to myself to never stop visiting family once my cousin died unexpectedly several years ago. It was in her memory that I committed to “always showing up” because it’s so damn easy to blow things off. It’s so damn easy to forget how finite life is, especially when you’re young. 

I spent this week sleeping. On Monday I slept for 12 hours. On Tuesday, I slept for 10. Today, I slept for 9. I am finally feeling recharged and ready to move and so, I haven’t cancelled my tickets. I want to make a choice that I am confident in.

    My mom shared with me at the beginning of this thought process that she had spent everyday driving hours to see her dad when he was sick with cancer and how it had put strain on her marriage but that she had no regrets. She wouldn’t change a thing. 

    I called my mom just now and I asked her what the continuation of her thoughts were, looking back on that time, and she shared with me that she wished she had done what I’m doing now (taking time for myself) because she thinks she probably wouldn’t have relapsed. I’m not sure why that hurt so much but I found my eyes wet when I heard that and I suddenly realized that I am doing exactly what I should be doing, as someone learning from their parents’ decisions. 

    If the next generation is supposed to be better than the last, I should be learning from example and reveling in the strength and wisdom of myself. It is a testament to the trust built up between me and my mom all this time that I do believe her when she shares things like that.

    As my best friend said, I can rally. I have historically done it, and I can do it now. But would I be breathless at the end? Members of my family keep projecting their frustrations with familial obligation onto me and for a moment I lost sight of my own feelings. Obligation is not at play here. Obligation would be coming for a week during Thanksgiving break and not taking any time for myself. If not for the crappy airport transit, I would be there for the actual holiday and this wouldn’t even be a debate. Family in small doses is restorative for me, not draining. In order to burn the candle, I must fill the lamp with oil. I have just enough oil for a short burst of being surrounded by love. What a gift it is to have that sort of blessing available to me. Couch surfing for five days on the other hand sounds miserable. So, in December, I will be able to fulfill my obligation of being present for longer in town so that other people feel at ease. I would just like the record to show that if it were up to me I would only be there for Thanksgiving day and Christmas Eve/Day. Alas, I am an out-of-towner.

    My mom said that when her dad died, she had poured so much of herself into caring for him, when it should have been a responsibility shared by all of the family, that she had no energy to process what came next when he died. As my own dad navigates cancer, I can’t help but feel closer to them both and consumed by the inevitability of the fear of grief. Yes, I fear the loss, but I also fear the grief. 

    I know the taste of loss and I know how grief, unsatiated by its own existence, can swallow someone whole. It wraps itself like a second skin across your shoulders, weighing you down until it becomes common to shuffle from place to place, looking for relief in any form that shows up. 

    I wonder now, as I watch the hours tick down until I intend to cancel my flight, if that’s the pain I’m looking to avoid, or if it’s the pain of missing familial, familiar comfort. There is no peace in my choice because there will be suffering no matter the outcome. How do I reconcile my suffering? Which strength do I seek? The comfort of having the energy to process the grief when it does come, because I know it will? Or the comfort of having made enough core memories so that I can move forward knowing I have something to go back to when no more memories are possible?

    I don’t suffer from substance use disorder, so I know that relapse is not on my list of fears, but depression and anxiety and fatigue and inflammation are certainly there. Unhealthy coping and mood instability are there. Relationship strains and self isolation are there. Not being present at Thanksgiving is a natural consequence of living in a different state. Because it was my choice to move here, the weight of that choice feels heavier today but it’s okay. 

    I want my kids to be able to make choices that feel right for them. I want them to live long happy lives without too much stress. I want them to not worry about getting diseases as a result of fatigue and stress and poor coping skills. I want them to be able to regulate and practice good boundaries when the time comes. I want them to know that I know that they love me even if they decide not to visit for the holidays. I also want them to know that there will come a time when I will request they be present and that because I’ve given them so much space and trust and confidence in the past, that they should trust me to be honest. The tricky part now as I see it, is figuring out how to apply that idea to my own family. They are not honest with me when I need them to be and that’s probably because it’s impossible to be honest with yourself 100% of the time so I know it’s inhuman to do what I hope they would but I think that’s the important missing piece here. That, and abandonment issues. I hope my children won’t feel like they are abandoning me if they do not show up for the holidays. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned in my healing journey these last couple years is that while being abandoned is painful as hell, feeling like you’re abandoning someone else is excruciating.

Questions I wish I had answered

My computer is charged and I told someone else to write tonight in order to process so I feel like it’s probably a good time to take my own freaking advice. 

I’m unsatisfied with my life for some reason I can’t pinpoint. Ever since my ex pointed it out, I can’t unsee it. I’m not unhappy (most of the time) and I do battle with depression and anxiety so that’s always a factor, but I’ve led a mostly fulfilled life up until this point. I wonder if it’s because I had all these time-oriented goals that just don’t exist in my life the same way? Like I’ve been building up to get where I am now and it’s somehow a let down? Am I actually disappointed or just ungrateful? Should I add in more mindfulness? Should I be setting new goals? Why do I feel like I have no sense of direction? Am I looking at things as they are or looking for ghosts where there are none?

My teacher is gone. She is too unwell to aid me on my journey and I’m flying solo, which is mostly fine except that I feel like I’m still such an apprentice. I wish I still had her around to call. I should probably try reaching out.

If I could write a letter to my younger self I’d probably say:

There’s really no rush. You’re going to feel like you’re behind for your entire life, and in many ways you always will be. That’s what trauma does: it sets you back. But once you’ve started the hardwork of healing and growing, you’re just as on track as anyone else. Take your time and spend less energy worrying about time. Even if time has been a constant in your life, worry about it less.

I think now about all the time I wasted worrying and all the pressure I put on myself to end up where I am now and I’m like what the hell was I thinking? This can’t be the open pasture dream I wanted. Or, maybe it’s exactly what I wanted: to be completely independent, in unchartered waters, over a thousand miles away from my family. 

I still can’t reconcile if I made this choice to grow up or to run away or both. I know after this year, the end of my lease, that it feels infinitely more likely that I will run back home. But for what? I better be doing it with a clear head and an open mind rather than a sad heart. Because if there’s anything I’ve figured out from living here on my own for the last three years it’s that you carry all your burdens with you no matter where you go. Vacations don’t clear the mind, they just give you space to feel everything you need to feel. 

I am certainly stronger now than I was but I’m also weaker without my people in my corner. I’m more focused on my own life here and the things I want to pursue (theoretically) so I did accomplish that goal. I am no longer enmeshed in the workings of my family. 

Is that truly what I want? To be a separate entity? To grow up and apart? To make years of memories without the people I love the most? With so much time behind me, it’s easy to forget how much pain and junk come along with living close to home. Even through all the love, there’s just so much mud to wade through. I don’t know that I would be any happier at home than I am now and I’m terrified to make a decision that I’ll regret. I definitely don’t regret moving here, I think I’m just starting to really question staying here. My career options open up as soon as I get through this first post-grad hurtle. So I know I’m in a good spot, with an awesome network of folks, and a firm foundation to be successful. That’s what the draw always was. So then why am I still feeling underwater? Why do I feel such a pit in my stomach? Is this what loneliness is, when it’s been left to fester? I am a creative, so I must always know loneliness. That’s what the creative habit has taught me. But do I need to always be aware it? 

I’m taking a year to be sober. Or, “dry” rather. I am not an alcoholic (yet) so I don’t feel the need to label myself or take over an identity I don’t have to claim but I am not a healthy person when I use alcohol to bury my feelings. Maybe one day I can try again, but for the next year, as I enter a new decade (my thirties), it’s time to reassess. 

What is my five year plan? What are my goals? I am in limbo because I can’t make any decisions yet until I get through this year and see what my contract looks like in the spring. I am waiting on my dad’s test results. I’m waiting on completing my license in October. I’m waiting for my dog to get certified. I’m waiting for things to feel like home.

I really like my life and the little home I’ve made for myself. I always feel safe and warm when I’m home. Still, it feels temporary, this little home.

My next step is to buy property for sure. But where? I had the option not long ago and I chose a different path, one that left me open to think a little longer. In retrospect, it was probably a damn good idea since the housing market is ACTUALLY bananas. Still. Where do I go next? Which home will I claim?

Continued

I can’t identify my feelings today or last week or even the week before.

I feel pretty good right now. I just went to the gym and said my farewells to alcohol for the coming year and I’m not scared about it really. I am realizing that I really am like a cat and I need routines. I only have capacity for so much variety in a day. I go to work and it is quite literally a constant unknown. I field that stress for myself and others and regulate pretty damn hard.

When I come home, I need a ritual that helps me turn my brain off. Lately it’s been going out and sometimes it’s a bottle of wine and a movie. I don’t think those things are bad I just don’t want those to be my go-to coping skills. Something happened to me this year where I lost track of myself. I got caught up in the lives of those around me and I’m feeling pretty unsettled. What I need is a sense of calm most of the time, and predictable stress on the weekends (like the gym, a hike, or even a date night out).

Lately, I’m just swirling in chaos and it is so draining. Coming from someone who used to live in a predictably chaotic home, and spent most of her life unaware of how much her hair was on fire, I’ve become accustomed to the life I’ve been building. One that is restful and recharging. I’ve discovered that people can recharge or drain me. I’ve discovered that I enjoy resting and also running. I’ve discovered that art is a practice I employ when I need to learn about myself and that I find countless excuses why I don’t need to seek that discomfort. I’m starting to see that I employ other methods now in different ways and I am intentionally building various expressive practices into my routines. Visual art is just one of my tools, it does not define me. Although, I certainly am a creative soul.

My ideal mate is capable of self-regulating, self-managing, and growth. They may cycle through phases of comfort and growth but ultimately they know they want to be better everyday. It takes energy to grow all the time. Even trees get breaks with the seasons. My ideal mate may not be structured, but understands the value of it. They may not be organized but they appreciate it. They have goals and dreams and they make shit happen (even if it’s attached to an “eventually”). My ideal mate is thoughtful, communicative, and adaptable. They are not paralyzed by fear or question their self-worth. They know the value add they bring to the world and interpersonal situations.

As I write this, I see that I’ve decided my perfect mate looks a lot like me, and dating myself would be incredibly boring, even if it’s comforting to meet likeminded people. I think my takeaway is that I’m hoping that there’s someone out there who lives life seeking balance, takes care of themselves, and has a sense of play.

Everything is way too heavy without a little childlike fun.

Can’t catch a break (burnout)

I’m feeling so much stress lately (and today in particular) that it makes my skin feel weird. Thinking about the chaos and lack of security in my current world is not what I want longterm.

I can feel my chest beating louder, tingling in my arms, and my voice doesn’t sound like me. I can’t even feel my stomach. What’s that about?

The guy I’m dating now has a daughter and I knew I’d be third priority at best but we really haven’t been dating that long and he has literally no systems in place. Everything is new and I totally get that and I have compassion for him really I do. I could not live his life. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to. But when you decide to date someone, you are effectively “trying on” a shared life and I’m not sure I can do it. I don’t think it’s his fault or that my life is particularly less chaotic by any means but I feel like I’ve been in an adrenaline state for the last six weeks and I’m uncomfortable. I need things to change.

There’s so much outside noise I can’t even piece together what is what. I don’t even know him very well and I’m not sure how we get to know each other better with all this mud dirtying up the picture. Are we trying to fit a round peg in a square hole? Is this the universe’s way of saying: you are not meant to be and it’s time you part ways. Because it’s starting to feel that way, that there’s just too much shit. I don’t know what to think. I’m honestly just confused, sad, frustrated, and lonely again.

I suspect things would be better in time, but how much better? What should I plan for? Anything? At this rate, I don’t know.