Unfinished.


“You're beginning to wonder exactly who is in charge of quality control for all those treasure maps”…

So it seems this whole writing business is coming in handy when it comes to sorting things out and getting over those pesky hurdles. Chicken soup or some such nonsense, yes?  I jest. I’m well aware there’s something very rewarding to being able to express oneself, be it through music, art, writing or kung fu. 

We all need an outlet. There won’t always be a shoulder to cry on and experience has told me, we aren’t by any means owed that.  When we do find ourselves fortunate enough to find a sounding board in life, it’s not something to be taken lightly and most certainly not for granted.

I’m not an easy person to know.

I struggle with that as I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it aloud. Something happens when you’ve spent so much time and energy crafting a pleasant persona for those you have no intention of letting in. The struggle between the outer and inner creatures results in constant torment and grief. Often the persistence of those who sincerely care for you becomes maddening. You earnestly try shooing them away….gently at first.

That rarely works.

You fool yourself into believing perhaps they’ll just forget about you so you can quietly mourn and proceed to make precisely zero changes.

Their stubbornness is almost impressive.
 
Finally the wall begins to crack… to erode… and everything once contained inside comes pouring out. I can only imagine the utter shock on the receiving end, though the facial expressions do much to aid the translation. From there we both find the battle has just begun.

My gut instinct is to apologize. That is rarely received well. After all, they accomplished what they clearly set out to do. And I applaud their bravery. Still, it hardly seems fair. All that work and this is the thanks they get?  Seems like anyone who hangs out with this riff-raff is getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop!

All that said, I’m eternally grateful for those few amazing souls. Not a day goes by when I don’t marvel at my fortune. At these people who inexplicably formed a nest in my heart. In my soul. Who know EVERYTHING they NEVER wanted to know, and still answer my calls or smile in response to my gaze. Awestruck.
My questionable self esteem dictates I will forever feel the scales are tipped. That I have little more to offer up than myself. But there is a protective nature to my beast. I will fight for them until the end of time. I will be there when it feels like everyone else has left. They have taught me their persistence. An unconditional love I didn’t think I was capable of feeling, let alone receiving.  They soften the hard lines around my being and open my mind to experiences I was too afraid to know. It is my hope they realize their value to every cell in my body even when I’m too caught up in __________ to express. They are loved beyond words.

Excuses, Excuses


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

Just Write.

During this extended absence, it became clear to me I was missing something in my life. The past few weeks have been tough. Slipping into the quicksand of depression, my thoughts were becoming increasingly chaotic. My emotions: Up and down.  A rollercoaster of the most damning variety. Still, making sense of it all was akin to learning a foreign language in the span of an afternoon.

The grass is always greener. Always. Somewhere else, the promise of a better life. Of happiness. Fame. Fortune. Beauty. But there is no secret formula. No plot of land promising omnipresent awesomeness. No. Such. Thing. It comes from within. Trouble is, “within” has become a boiling tar pit of yuck. It seems each time I turn inside out searching for an answer, I come out covered in goo and weepy to boot.

“You don’t smile anymore.” Heartbroken. I used to smile like an idiot at EVERYTHING (remind me to tell you about the story I read 2 days ago about the “Jerks of the Aviation World” – I seem to remember that made me smile, if only for a moment). Every hour of every day, I would smile so much my mouth hurt. What happened? Age? Stress? Lack of sleep? That pesky broken back of mine? I don’t think so. So bear with me as I’m planning on using my favorite medium to arrive at some sort of conclusion, here. At least a pseudo-conclusion until I close my eyes only to open them once more and find I have forgotten EVERYTHING. Have I shot myself in the foot before I took my first step?

I rather think it’s something impossibly simple. There is no “I” in “Team”, but if you rearrange the letters, you can find “me”. It’s me. I’m lost. Or rather, I’ve lost myself. Silly as it sounds, I actually enjoy being me. Not the me I inexplicably find myself being for other people. Not the wife, the Mama, the lackluster employee who eagerly takes way too much on her shoulders in the hopes of averting termination. Not even the “cool girl” who is invited out for Metal Night with the boys with the understanding that no chicks are allowed. Just me. Nothing fancy. No sparkles. No effort.

Whatever happened to that broad? Did she win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Shangri-La only to discover it was a ruse? Perhaps she embarked on one of those fanciful capers she was always talking about and she’s currently serving 25 to life? Nope. It’s something far more tragic.

She gradually faded into the heavily patterned wallpaper until the defining lines blurred beyond recognition.

Why? Why do I do that? What metaphorical shackles have consumed every limb rendering my ability to break free futile? Always eager to please, this one. Forever seeking acceptance, forgiveness, indifference yet love. Round and round we go, where we stop, I always know. Depression. Happiness is such an elusive bitch.

Just write. I’m feeling better already…

Kitty

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Unfinished.


“You're beginning to wonder exactly who is in charge of quality control for all those treasure maps”…

So it seems this whole writing business is coming in handy when it comes to sorting things out and getting over those pesky hurdles. Chicken soup or some such nonsense, yes?  I jest. I’m well aware there’s something very rewarding to being able to express oneself, be it through music, art, writing or kung fu. 

We all need an outlet. There won’t always be a shoulder to cry on and experience has told me, we aren’t by any means owed that.  When we do find ourselves fortunate enough to find a sounding board in life, it’s not something to be taken lightly and most certainly not for granted.

I’m not an easy person to know.

I struggle with that as I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it aloud. Something happens when you’ve spent so much time and energy crafting a pleasant persona for those you have no intention of letting in. The struggle between the outer and inner creatures results in constant torment and grief. Often the persistence of those who sincerely care for you becomes maddening. You earnestly try shooing them away….gently at first.

That rarely works.

You fool yourself into believing perhaps they’ll just forget about you so you can quietly mourn and proceed to make precisely zero changes.

Their stubbornness is almost impressive.
 
Finally the wall begins to crack… to erode… and everything once contained inside comes pouring out. I can only imagine the utter shock on the receiving end, though the facial expressions do much to aid the translation. From there we both find the battle has just begun.

My gut instinct is to apologize. That is rarely received well. After all, they accomplished what they clearly set out to do. And I applaud their bravery. Still, it hardly seems fair. All that work and this is the thanks they get?  Seems like anyone who hangs out with this riff-raff is getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop!

All that said, I’m eternally grateful for those few amazing souls. Not a day goes by when I don’t marvel at my fortune. At these people who inexplicably formed a nest in my heart. In my soul. Who know EVERYTHING they NEVER wanted to know, and still answer my calls or smile in response to my gaze. Awestruck.
My questionable self esteem dictates I will forever feel the scales are tipped. That I have little more to offer up than myself. But there is a protective nature to my beast. I will fight for them until the end of time. I will be there when it feels like everyone else has left. They have taught me their persistence. An unconditional love I didn’t think I was capable of feeling, let alone receiving.  They soften the hard lines around my being and open my mind to experiences I was too afraid to know. It is my hope they realize their value to every cell in my body even when I’m too caught up in __________ to express. They are loved beyond words.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Excuses, Excuses


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Just Write.

During this extended absence, it became clear to me I was missing something in my life. The past few weeks have been tough. Slipping into the quicksand of depression, my thoughts were becoming increasingly chaotic. My emotions: Up and down.  A rollercoaster of the most damning variety. Still, making sense of it all was akin to learning a foreign language in the span of an afternoon.

The grass is always greener. Always. Somewhere else, the promise of a better life. Of happiness. Fame. Fortune. Beauty. But there is no secret formula. No plot of land promising omnipresent awesomeness. No. Such. Thing. It comes from within. Trouble is, “within” has become a boiling tar pit of yuck. It seems each time I turn inside out searching for an answer, I come out covered in goo and weepy to boot.

“You don’t smile anymore.” Heartbroken. I used to smile like an idiot at EVERYTHING (remind me to tell you about the story I read 2 days ago about the “Jerks of the Aviation World” – I seem to remember that made me smile, if only for a moment). Every hour of every day, I would smile so much my mouth hurt. What happened? Age? Stress? Lack of sleep? That pesky broken back of mine? I don’t think so. So bear with me as I’m planning on using my favorite medium to arrive at some sort of conclusion, here. At least a pseudo-conclusion until I close my eyes only to open them once more and find I have forgotten EVERYTHING. Have I shot myself in the foot before I took my first step?

I rather think it’s something impossibly simple. There is no “I” in “Team”, but if you rearrange the letters, you can find “me”. It’s me. I’m lost. Or rather, I’ve lost myself. Silly as it sounds, I actually enjoy being me. Not the me I inexplicably find myself being for other people. Not the wife, the Mama, the lackluster employee who eagerly takes way too much on her shoulders in the hopes of averting termination. Not even the “cool girl” who is invited out for Metal Night with the boys with the understanding that no chicks are allowed. Just me. Nothing fancy. No sparkles. No effort.

Whatever happened to that broad? Did she win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Shangri-La only to discover it was a ruse? Perhaps she embarked on one of those fanciful capers she was always talking about and she’s currently serving 25 to life? Nope. It’s something far more tragic.

She gradually faded into the heavily patterned wallpaper until the defining lines blurred beyond recognition.

Why? Why do I do that? What metaphorical shackles have consumed every limb rendering my ability to break free futile? Always eager to please, this one. Forever seeking acceptance, forgiveness, indifference yet love. Round and round we go, where we stop, I always know. Depression. Happiness is such an elusive bitch.

Just write. I’m feeling better already…