I know the old adage about not mailing a letter when you're upset, waiting 24 hours and seeing if you still feel the same way, and then it's okay. Of course, no one writes letters anymore, and I am of the wildly unhealthy attitude of "if you feel it, say it." This doesn't apply to every aspect of my life, but more and more, because I don't want to feel marginalized anymore, I just say the verbal diarrhea things you're not really supposed to say or ask of people, and then I get frustrated when I don't get the response I want, or any response for that matter.
I have a few peccadilloes, to be sure. I don't like bugs, dirt, the outdoors, sharks, cows, white plates, if I can help it, or ever, EVER walking barefoot outside. But, more intimately, I cannot abide being ignored or not validated. I don't know if this is a writer thing or a I need serious therapy thing, but I can remember in high school, almost physically accosting a boy who ended up being a long-term boyfriend, because he was trying to ignore me. There, shit, I've exposed my Achilles heel. Do not ignore me; it will inflame emotions that don't even make sense to me.
Maybe it's a youngest child thing? I was/am the "baby," and always had full attention, plus I had/have a flair for the dramatic, so I never wanted for attention. Maybe I just don't understand not getting it. This doesn't translate all that well to adulthood. I'm not some whiny diva, stamping her foot or demanding a spotlight. I just don't seem to understand when my personal feelings are not being validated or explained.
Therapy, you say? Don't mind if I do. I think this is an issue beyond my purvey. I think getting the bloody hell out of my own crazy, loud mind is a good place to start. It's a zoo up there. There are songs going off at all intervals, clips of old movies, excerpts of conversations from my past, etc...I don't know how I ever sleep. And to be honest, when I do, that mania bleeds into my dreams, and I have vivid, brilliant dreams that make absolutely no sense, but would make wonderful short stories or movies, if I could organize them.
My grandfather told me frequently, that his head hurt, just from all the thoughts swirling through, and then and now, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He had insomnia and he wrote in a walkabout manner, which I sometimes do, and I know most definitely from where I get this. It doesn't help that much, to know, except that I'm humbled to take after him, but humble doesn't help me sleep at night. And neither do unanswered questions. I hate unanswered questions.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
The Gout and the Beyond
Is it normal to just feel constantly irritated? I know the answer is no, so let's just say that's a rhetorical question. I honestly think I have the patience of a two year-old. I basically know what in my life is sort of broken, and I want to make it fixed, or be fixed, or just "fix it!" P.S., the broken part is my confidence.
I have a weird elbow thing going on. I've come to believe that I get about one bizarre medical thing once a year or every other year. For the most part, they're pretty benign. Corneal abrasion, fine; Sinus surgery, fine; gall bladder surgery, fine; gout and/or an inexplicable staph infection, fine. However, with the latter, I cannot move my arm all the way, and my elbow freaking hurts. Oh, age, you little rapscallion, thank you for these little surprises.
I find dating or just the existence of being single and finding the need to date exhausting. I have become a huge weirdo when it comes to dating, and I don't know how that happened. I am not generally a huge weirdo. I am a unique and delightful snowflake with scores of disillusioned and dumped men in my past. Maybe this is karma? But, I super swear, I was always so nice. I don't feel this particular brand of confusion is fair.
I am so happy for my married friends with little ones who are deep within the throes of domesticity, I really am. That is not a snarky statement. However, I feel a little like they are all feeling sorry for me, poor Emily who found herself divorced past her prime. Probably no one thinks that, I don't know, but that's what I think they think, and the only reason I bring it up is because I feel so far removed from that married with kids being-ness, that either a. It's not the life for me, or b. I'm still too raw from divorce to fathom it. I don't know which is the correct answer.
I have such grand, theoretical plans for myself. I'm constantly inspired by the words of others, and I know that no matter what happens, I refuse to ever settle. I joke about being old and the like, but I'm not, I do well realize that, and I am not lying down to give up my life to work, which I do love, but little else. Hope springs eternal, and I am nothing without hope and beauty and the promise of the next day.
In a backwards Father's Day jab, I blame my dad for my romanticism. He told me, constantly, that when I met "the One," that I would know it, as he did with my mother. He told me so many other wonderfully brilliant things, that you would think I could let this one go. But, I feel like this was a biggie. I love you, Daddy, but maybe the pure wholesomeness of growing up in the 50s didn't properly prepare you for raising kids that would get married in the '00s and deal with things on a whole other level. I do forgive him, but I would pay almost anything for his advice right now.
I have a weird elbow thing going on. I've come to believe that I get about one bizarre medical thing once a year or every other year. For the most part, they're pretty benign. Corneal abrasion, fine; Sinus surgery, fine; gall bladder surgery, fine; gout and/or an inexplicable staph infection, fine. However, with the latter, I cannot move my arm all the way, and my elbow freaking hurts. Oh, age, you little rapscallion, thank you for these little surprises.
I find dating or just the existence of being single and finding the need to date exhausting. I have become a huge weirdo when it comes to dating, and I don't know how that happened. I am not generally a huge weirdo. I am a unique and delightful snowflake with scores of disillusioned and dumped men in my past. Maybe this is karma? But, I super swear, I was always so nice. I don't feel this particular brand of confusion is fair.
I am so happy for my married friends with little ones who are deep within the throes of domesticity, I really am. That is not a snarky statement. However, I feel a little like they are all feeling sorry for me, poor Emily who found herself divorced past her prime. Probably no one thinks that, I don't know, but that's what I think they think, and the only reason I bring it up is because I feel so far removed from that married with kids being-ness, that either a. It's not the life for me, or b. I'm still too raw from divorce to fathom it. I don't know which is the correct answer.
I have such grand, theoretical plans for myself. I'm constantly inspired by the words of others, and I know that no matter what happens, I refuse to ever settle. I joke about being old and the like, but I'm not, I do well realize that, and I am not lying down to give up my life to work, which I do love, but little else. Hope springs eternal, and I am nothing without hope and beauty and the promise of the next day.
In a backwards Father's Day jab, I blame my dad for my romanticism. He told me, constantly, that when I met "the One," that I would know it, as he did with my mother. He told me so many other wonderfully brilliant things, that you would think I could let this one go. But, I feel like this was a biggie. I love you, Daddy, but maybe the pure wholesomeness of growing up in the 50s didn't properly prepare you for raising kids that would get married in the '00s and deal with things on a whole other level. I do forgive him, but I would pay almost anything for his advice right now.
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