Making Sense of This

Well I’ve made a big turn around in my plans for life in the future (after college). I used to dream of moving to the big city, Seattle maybe?, and owning a little apartment and hanging out in clubs at night. Sure, that all seems fine and dandy for my college years. But once I get out of my twenties and grow up a little, I’m looking for something more meaningful and concrete. I’ve always been fascinated by Alaska, and Ketchikan is the southern-most big city. It’s like a cooler (temperature-wise) version of Seattle. I’ll be honest, and I know this will make people angry (don’t read my blog then!), I’m not very comfortable with the progressive, liberal attitudes of the big city. I’ve gone back to my roots lately, no longer ignoring my conservative upbringing. I tried to, but I can’t bring myself to get on-board with the way our country is currently being run (enough said). I want to move away from it all, to a place called the “Last Frontier”. Such a beautiful destination – black bears and moose in their natural habitat underneath the glow of the Aurora Borealis. It’s a dream. Maybe once I settle down and want to start a family. Until then, I’m focused more on my studies than on my geographical location.

DISCLAIMER: If you don’t agree with anything said here, and you know what I’m talking about, please do not confront me about it. I pay you the same respect. Thanks!

…And why is it standing in the way of my progress? Today in therapy, we talked about my negative thought processes and how to turn them around to positive ones. One of them is that, to me, there is some sort of strange “beauty” in struggling and pain. Maybe it’s the artist in me looking for an image to recreate. Or the writer, looking for a story. Twisted maybe? Or could it hint at something just below the surface, revealing itself a tiny bit so that I might grab onto it and pull the rest out into the daylight. It’s a question not solved in one “a-ha!” moment, but in many various therapy sessions and journal entries and forum posts.

It’s about my thread just posted in “Psychotherapy”. I keep beating myself up about it because I’m being stupid about it. I just don’t want to offend anyone.

I’m currently reading the book “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert, a story that documents the journey to Italy, India, and Indonesia made by a woman after painful experiences disrupt her life. Then I watched this video…http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/453. It’s funny, because I’d never given this a second thought (or first, actually) – that my work will someday come under fire of the harsh criticism of other people. It never bothered me before, until now. I definitely feel insecure about my writing now. I mean, look at what I’m up against. If you’ve ever read the aforementioned memoir, it’s plain that Gilbert was cut out for her life’s work. It’s what she was made to do. What about me? I’m pretty sure I was absent the day they handed out destinies in God’s Waiting Room. I want to write. I want to do it well, very well, and I want to feel total and complete dedication to my work…my baby.

It’s clear I am not a huge fan of Seth MacFarlane, creator of the hit show “Family Guy”. Some of his work is funny. But a lot of it is just downright insulting. There are the black comments, the Jew slurs, etc etc. But what about jeers towards people that are more subtle? I’m talking about his “cutter” comments – jokes about people who deal with self-injury. Talk about bad taste, right? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time “Family Guy” has overstepped it’s boundaries. I don’t watch it anymore…it simply got too political for me. Keep acting like an immature high schooler, Seth, trying to make a joke to win attention. Eventually you will lose an audience that no amount of laughter will be able to bring back.

“That I would be good” by Alanis Morissette. I’ve often heard this song mentioned on PC, by a few different people. To someone “in treatment” this song is purely amazing. Well, it is to me at least. Every single line drips with the emotion I feel towards her and the whole process. How cared for I feel, and how loved. As well as heard and understood, supported and valued. All the things I could never feel towards myself. So now, I try to live in the present, in the peace of all these feelings. Because I know it will end someday. It’s cruel, almost. These are given to me for free, leaving me wanting more. Then they are eventually taken away, leaving me lonely and afraid, to fend for myself. Hopefully once this happens, I can supply them on my own. Create my own self-esteem. But how I will miss her. They say not to worry, but do you think this advice actually gets through to my mind? Um, no, not at all. And so the issue continues.

 Wow, I can’t write well today. Or maybe I’m just too critical? Hmm…

From my journal last night…

 I just felt like it was over  – that the hardest parts were over. That there was nothing left to talk about, and all we could do is just sit and wait. Wait for the impending hell that school could possibly be…wait for a change in my life that would require many sessions to bring out into the open. Into my concious mind where I would work at dealing with it, at resolving the issue, one day at at time.

I have no idea where this thought is going – all I can and want to do right now is write. The blank lines before me don’t create fear – I am in charge of them. I can write whatever I please. No, a blank canvas is certainly more intimidating to me. But these lines on the paper are my friends. Each one, with it’s own separate personality, can spark something in me – a new reaction. And then I can record that feeling here, verbatim.

You see, this is what I do. Out of everything I’ve done before – all the hobbies and ridiculous attempts at finding my “thing”, this one has remained an interest for the longest time, and it’s definitely the most productive. It is the ONLY way, I swear, that I am able to express all this built-up tension and emotion inside. Really, I can do nothing else.

Ugh, another comment on my poem, another bad feeling to follow it. And this one has left me feeling like f’ing shit. Not much to say here that I haven’t already said yesterday, but I thought I’d write it down anyway. Soo not in a good mood right now. Stomach ache, can’t get the song “Life is Sweet” by Natalie Merchant out of my head…”Don’t cry, you know the tears will do no good so dry your eyes”… So, again, not much to say here. Not like it matters really. Remind me to come back when I give a damn. Oh, and if it sounds like I’m exaggerating, I probably am. Wouldn’t be suprised. Do you agree that my writing sounds bad when I’m in a crappy mood?

 I don’t know how to deal with this, but I know what I would love to do right now. Hmm, what makes me feel better during times like these? Except for the fact that I can’t do it anymore. So all this leaves me feeling lost. I know this writing probably doesn’t make much sense, but when did it ever?

Thinking about how critical I am, I wonder…have I always been this way? When did it start? And for crying out loud, why do I need everyone’s constant praise to make me feel better about myself? This simple thought could go way back…to my childhood when I was in 1st grade. The school counselors came to talk to us about how important self-esteem was to our well-being. Maybe I should have listened, right?

 I want to stop here. Oh god, even my own thoughts are boring me now What do I have to do to keep sane?? (hahaha, maybe I should shut up and go watch Frasier)

I sit in front of my laptop, reading over the first and only review of my poem. Anyone else would say it’s a positive reply, but I see between the lines. Bear with me, this writing may not make much sense, and frankly, I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I just wonder, really, if I am a good writer? It’s the question I’ve been trying to answer ever since I first picked up the pen. Perhaps my low self-esteem is causing me to second guess my poetry – and myself. But what if I really do suck? Someone, please answer me. But be nice about it, since my pathetic feelings are gentle and can easily be hurt (this is supposed to be sarcastic, by the way)

 I have a friend, she’s amazing. A beautiful artist and writer, she constantly captivates our attention with her drawings and poems. And there I stand, jealous as hell with her shadow closing in around me. I’ve always wanted to be that kind of person – the kind that can write a poem in 10 minutes flat, with the words coming so easily. I want to add that extra pinch of desparation (spelling?) to my writing, to hint at the pain coursing through my body. I want people to read this, and feel it deep inside themselves. And I want them to chose my poem as the contest winner. Petty? Maybe. Selfish? Hell yes.

All I can say is…thank God I’ve got T tomorrow. It’s just, I don’t know how to deal with this. All I can do is try to put up with them and go about my day. Nervously.

It feels like my freedom has been taken away. I get out of school in June, embrace 3 months of peace and relaxation, only to be thrown back into that hellhole once again. I walk, silently as everyone else sees me, but my thoughts scream out loud. They tell me to flee, to get out of here “Now!”. And when I cannot leave, they mock those people for what they did, all that they said. I hate them.

Still, in T, I get my sacred outlet. Once a week, I can tell her of the lonelyness, the doubt. I sit there on the couch, or lie down if I’m feeling brave. She can see my anxiety, but this time is different. I want her to know the shaking, the red-faced glances I cast at teachers as they walk by me, absorbed in their own superficial world. They don’t see me, they don’t care. “Do you see me? Can’t you do something, please? Please…”

I love to have that hour, that safe haven. It’s the retreat that I’ve longed for all this time. I could only have imagined coming to you, letting it all come pouring out of me. And now that I am here, I don’t want to leave. If only I could see you forever, be your friend. But I know this isn’t possible in reality.

So I thank T for her time, while I have it. I then pick up my courage, put on my jacket, and walk back out into the cruel, desolate world…