Some Changes Must Be Made

I need to make some changes in my life. Period. That's all there is. As much as I love my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants existence, I don't think I can sustain it into my 90s..and I plan on being a very sassy 90 -year-old.

I need to quit smoking once and for all, and I need to start exercising regularly, and I need to do what makes ME happy and feel fulfilled. Of course, first I need to figure that out, but maybe that's the fun part.

Maybe I won't have the children I thought I'd have, or maybe I will, or maybe I'll adopt or be a super cool stepmother, but I can't even get to that point until I resemble a stable adult, or something close to it. I can't really justify my woman-child-ness for much longer.

I also need to recognize that maybe I need therapy. There's no shame in that, either. Maybe we all  need therapy. I certainly know some people to whom I'd recommend it. And, see, I just did something I'm also going to try to stop..being negative. I can't stop being cynical, or I'll die, but I can try to stop being nasty and negative, even if I think I'm right or within my bounds. It doesn't make me feel good, and it's not healthy.

Yes, I feel people have hurt me, but my reaction controls my attitude and emotional well-being, so I need to rise above or whatever the New Age take might be to move past it. Other people's emotional fuckwitted-ness need not rule my life, no matter the flowery words behind it. I wish to be happy, me, and I don't really need anyone else's take on how I need to achieve it.

I'm going to write more...really write, creatively, short stories and poetry and submit them and try to use my talent or whatever it is and see if it's really anything, or if I'm just a semi-professional blogger. It's the only thing I enjoy, so I hope that is not the case.

So, there you go....a starting point. We'll see how it goes.

I've Been a Bad, Bad Blogger

I used to be a good blogger. I updated regularly, I pored my little guts out metaphorically, and then I abandoned my blog because it was too hard. Nobody likes a quitter.

Since I last left you, I've been trying to find myself. Have I found succeeded? Sort of, but maybe only 75%. If you see the other 25%, send her my way. Or maybe not. Maybe it's an excellent weight loss plan.

I have developed the most maddening insomnia, which is starting to drive me a little 'round the bend. It does give me time to think of the craziest things possible, which then turn into ideas for my column or prompt me to restart this blog, so maybe it's not entirely bad, until the waking hallucinations start, and I think I'm Helen of Troy or Beyonce.

I genuinely don't understand it. I have never had trouble sleeping. 2015 hit, and my body has developed somniphobia. I don't know if that's a thing, but it is now. I just coined it. I'm tired all day, because I'm not sleeping properly, and as soon as I start even thinking about sleep, I get tense and anxious and mildly twitchy. Not cool. I've taken, Z-z-z-Quil, Benadryl, and Melatonin, and all that seems to happen is that I have dreams about aliens taking over the planet or being a Mafia boss (which was actually pretty cool).

Everyone keeps asking me what's wrong, as if I have secret pain to unlock, thereby making sleep magically occur. If that were the case, I wouldn't have slept for the latter part of 2012 and first part of 2013. I am unaware of any secret pain, except in my eyes, from LACK OF SLEEP. A couple of days ago, after about 5 hours of sleep the previous night, I started to feel vaguely high around lunchtime. Not high in a good way, but high in that paranoid, "they know," way. I'm too old for this shit. I need sleep.

As much as I adore subsisting on 9 cups of coffee a day and untold amounts of diet Mountain Dew, I would also like to retain my kidney function for as long as possible, too. It's a crazy notion, but one I'm fairly passionate about, and feeling like I'm in a waking dream for most of the day also sounds good in theory, but so does communism.

Serenity now!

I tried not to blog, I really did

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.

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.

What's the point, indeed?

My friend Layla posed a question earlier today that was way more profound than this, but the gist was, "How do you keep going as a positive person/force in the face of the misery/futility in the world?" I answered her, as best as I could, maybe not giving it as much thought as I should've, but I meant what I said. The less-verbose gist of what I said, along with a Dr. Seuss quote, was that I try to think of myself as the person in need and consider the possibility of no one caring, no one doing anything to help another person, another animal, another cause, and how truly sad a place that would make the world. But, I've thought about it more since then. What actually, does keep us going?

I don't know how to categorize myself. I'm not an optimist, but I really do swear that I'm not a pessimist. I'm sarcastic and self-deprecating, but I have and always will think that there is mostly good in the world. I want to believe the best in others, which is why I continuously have my heart shattered into little bits, but I don't stop believing, so I like to think of that as insane optimism, actually...expecting different results from relatively the same variables.

I wouldn't say I'm a sucker, but I probably do have a higher tolerance than most for trying to extract the good or nonexistent from people about whom I care. I tend to sell myself short in this regard, because it seems like I'm constantly elevating people who don't necessarily deserve it to a pedestal, while relegating myself to street level and being okay with that.

I'm trying to work on that, but I refuse to become a true cynic. I have too much romance and poetry in my heart to harden it to reflect the things I've been through in the last few years. It would be so incredibly easy, much, much easier, in fact, to close myself off and refuse to let anyone in, and don't think I haven't considered it. But, my stupid idealist heart can't do it. As much as I want to rail against the male gender and point out how I've been wronged, my head knows I can't blame the whole lot. As much as I want to curse the fates and God and the world for finding myself with only a handful of immediate family, and a mother with cancer, and I miss my father so much, I want to climb to Heaven and drag him back down here, I don't. I comfort myself with memories and and the love I knew growing up, and I relent.

So, I can't answer for everyone, and I would never presume to, but I do know that you can't let one bad experience or even 10 bad experiences define and shape you. I'll tell you honestly, I have no idea who "I" am. I'm slowly working it out. I had the misfortune of leading a relatively charmed life until recently, and nothing will set your ass straighter than being knocked off that particular chair. I'm knocking on the door of 37, divorced, single, with a hopeful heart, and all I know is that I long for happiness and peace, in whatever form I might find it. We all deserve it, and I make no apologies for wanting it.

The Piper Squeqeath...

I'm sitting here, post mom-visit, trying to cool down the apartment and listening to Piper chew on her most annoying toy. I hid the other one, that had the most high-pitched squeaky sound. It's only on the top of the entertainment center, which she can reach, but thank God, she hasn't figured out that secret code.

My mom's hair is falling out, due to her chemo treatments. I try to laugh it off for her and not make it a big deal. It's a big deal for her. She loves her hair. She will drive through tornadoes, hurricanes, personal tragedies, it doesn't matter, she will get her freaking hair done. I hate to see her scalp starting to become barren, but I hate it more for her to see it. She runs her hand through it, and a wad of hair comes clean, and a shadow passes over her face. That, I hate.

It's ironic, in a way. We went to see "God's Not Dead" yesterday at her behest, and I enjoyed it for the most part. The acting was abhorrent, but the message, which was the point, was clear. If you believe in God, which I, and my mother do, your life and death make sense. In theory, you don't have to think about the horror of death and worry about your and your loved ones' faith. And that's fine. I have no doubt whatsoever, that if my mother died tomorrow, she would be in Heaven and live the eternal good life.

The thing that I have a problem with, and I guess this is where we all struggle, is, why do we, on earth, even saved, have to be left with such crappy, horrible results? I understand that everything happens for a reason, but in the last four years, I've lost my father, grandmother, and brother, and my mother has cancer now. God, we all have given our lives to you, and we are not bad people. Give us a break. If nothing else, I prayed that you might heal my father, and I understand that might've been out of your purvey, but save my mother for at least a few years, if you can. I implore you.

In a whisper, you answered me. It was not what I wanted to hear.
Silent speaking allows for cruelty in its basest form.
You spat at me to calm down and be less happy.
I don't know what this means. You're always sad.

I cry myself to sleep at night, and I wake up puffy.
You sleep hard after a day of coldness.
My heart is open wide, and much punctures it.
You heart is a shell of glass and cement that is impenetrable.

Everything we experience enters our raw, beating heart
like vinegar, some of us more impervious than others.
My heart splays open like a science fair exhibit on
any given day.

The raw acidity pours in haphazardly,
and yet, occasionally, the little bits of hope and love survive.
I can't close my heart to the rare, raw bits that show, but
I can apply a bit of logic to those open pores.
You can't, because you don't have the luxury of choice.

So many emotions, so little life to express them

I keep hearing the phrase "woe is me" in my head, and then the Grammar Nazi part of me assesses that phrase as being incorrect. It should technically be "woe is I," and there you go, I can't even have a morose thought without fact-checking it first. And you know what, that's a little slice of the fried gold that is me. I have ADD thoughts and song lyrics and literary excerpts in there (in my mind) at any given time, and you either let me tell you what they are and deal with them, or I keep them inside and end up wandering the streets of Poughkeepsie, trying to sell people my hair. Your choice.

My mom is staying with me until Sunday, and I love having her here. Yes, she complains a lot, and yes, my apartment is not up to the Martha Stewart-living standards she would like, but I think, at long last, she is realizing that's not me. I've been a messy person my whole life. To clarify, I am not a dirty person; I am clean, my person is clean, but my living spaces and cars seem to amass with junk. I don't mean for this to happen, but as I proposed to her last night, "Would you rather be in a pristine living environment with no soul, or would you rather laugh until your stomach hurts?" She understood which was more important.

Ideally, I would be on the rich side and have a maid. It's not that I physically can't clean, it just that I feel my time is better spent elsewhere. Oh, how it used to piss off the ex-husband when I would say things like this, but I know better than anyone where the salvation of my sanity lies. I'll give you a hint: It's not cleaning the baseboards or figuring out where the eff the mop is and if it has enough squirty stuff. I can't deal with that stuff and have it look the way it should. I want to cook and decorate and make my place homey and inviting. Using my vacuum gives me a mild headache.

We all have our special talents. Domesticity in the strictest sense of the word, is not mine. I don't want to make my own floor cleaner or laundry detergent. I give the biggest props to those that can and do. I just want shit to be clean and me not have to deal with it. Yes, I'm a snob...a poor snob, but with standards, and yes, I'm a spoiled pain in the ass, but I was the youngest, and my parents taught me nothing outside making my bed and occasionally folding laundry. They once made me rake leaves, and I sang a slave spiritual until it got on my dad's nerves so bad, he told me to go back inside.

The more time I spend with my mom, my only surviving parent, the more I wonder what I'm gonna be like in 40 years. Will I have a kid (s) to hang out with me when I'm in my 70s? I'm in this weird dating limbo that feels like a Delorian and flux capacitors should be involved with Christopher Lloyd. I'm a bad dater. I vacillate between aloof cool awesome chick and needy, crazy "why don't you love me" chick. It's not a good mix. I simply don't know how to be. I loved, I lost, and I should be able to be normal about the next steps, but it's that normal part that's tripping me up. Whatever happened to being silently unhappy in a bad marriage until someone has a heart attack? That's what I was promised. KIDDING. I want to be deliriously happy, skipping through the daisies happy. I just don't know that I'm capable anymore.

An annoyance I can't seem to eliminate

I preface this by saying, this is a first-world, self-involved, somewhat whiny post. I have a great job, a roof over my head, food in my fridge and pantry, and no real concrete complaints from life. That being said, I just get these vague, unsettling feelings of "meh" and "I will punch you." That's totally normal, right?

When I was married, I would get these feelings and either bottle them way deep down as to avoid misplaced aggression, or I would freak out because there was a person who was legally required to absorb the brunt of my random, nonsensical outbursts of angry streams of consciousness. Sadly, there is no such person anymore. I have to actually deal with my emotions. What a buzz kill.

As a result, I do weird things, like get super excited to find super glue so I can repair things and alternately read three books at one time, which results in my getting really confused about what lines come back to me later. I also think I either aggressively internalize others' actions the wrong way or swing way on other to the other side of the spectrum and don't internalize them enough.

That was one of the somewhat positive things about marriage. You might've had to navigate a minefield here and there, but you were both forced to deal with it. Without that binding contract, and maybe with it for some people, you turn into the Sherlock Holmes of human emotion. "What did that statement mean?" "I've done something wrong, right?" And it goes on and on and on.

I am not a game-playing, hard-to-interpret kind of gal. Maybe to my detriment, I pretty much just say what's on my mind, what I expect and let you know what I find unacceptable. I feel empowered that way, but I also have to check myself occasionally and remember, oh, yeah, I'm single again and don't have a legal safety net to catch the crazy. No one is legally required to understand why my emotions might swing wildly about, as though attached to the legs of an Irish dancer. And I guess that's okay.

I don't cry myself to sleep anymore, and I look forward to doing things that I plan, but I also miss a warm body lying next to me at night, even if it snores. I find that longing depressing and maddening, but I'm a human being, and I can't deny my basest feelings. And I wouldn't want to. I think the best lesson I can teach myself out of all of this chaos and hurt from the past year is to understand what makes me happy, and how to best achieve it, landmines and all.

What does not kill us, umm...just stresses us out?

My mother has to have chemotherapy. Bam, there it is. She has/had cancer, and now, she has to have chemo. This pisses me off. First, I accepted the possibility of her having cancer, but she had a hysterectomy, which was supposed to cut off any need of further treatment. It didn't. I think doctors are like mechanics with fancy degrees. They can pretty much tell  us anything; we have no idea, and  we just go along with whatever they say.

I am not in the habit of questioning God. I know he has his own stuff going on, and I am very careful about challenging him or cursing him. However, when it comes to the last few years, I have to think. People frequently say that He doesn't give you more than you can handle. I take this to mean someone in my family (please let it be me) is going to be a real-life superhero. I don't revel in pity or misery ever, and I'm not going to start.

I told my mom earlier today that I think she'll be fine, because as I thought about some things, the strength that I have drawn from over my life, has come from her. I don't know anyone from my dad's family, really other than a couple of great aunts, but as much as I love/d my dad, the Gaithers are not from where I get my strength. That strength comes from farmer people raised in Pontotoc, Miss., from which my mom moved as a baby.

I state this as a person who has very little knowledge of this, but here goes....we should learn about our roots, our ancestors, if possible. My family is so small, it's a little creepy. It's pretty much me and my sister and niece and their offspring. Done. Yeah, we have cousins, but it's not the same as an immediate family member you call and know exactly what's going on. Thank the sweet Lord for giving me a sister. We are like the sun and moon, we're so different, but I think God knew what he was doing. Just let my mother be alright. I am not ready to say goodbye to my mother. God, I need you to look past some crap and just give us a break. Thank you.

Joey, I'm Not Angry Anymore

I've had a headache for two days. It's sinus-related, as Mother Nature has apparently gone way off her meds this winter. While I very much enjoyed the snow we had, sort of, I'm having a teeny issue with the 70 degrees one day and the 42 degrees the next day. My sinuses are not happy. I had the first infection in 6 months because of all of this temporal fabulosity, and while that's mostly gone, I'm still having that wondrous pressure in my face. The reason I bring this up, is that even though I feel like removing my facial bones with a rusty spork, I am sublimely happy and can't quite comprehend it.

My divorce is this close to being final. The papers were "e-filed" (so fancy these days) today, and I am merely waiting for a final, judge-signed decree. If you would have told me a year ago that I would be meeting this news with cheerful nonchalance, I would've claimed that you surely jest. But, I am. Really and truly, I am. I am living alone (with Piper the Wonderdog) for the first time in 8 years, and I love it. No, I haven't completely organized since my December move, and I don't care.

I have clutter and full storage closets, and pictures still waiting for a place to hang. I need curtains, a new vacuum cleaner, and I can't figure out why my cell phone bill seems about $50 higher than it should be. There are currently at least five pairs of shoes not in my closet, and this laptop has Piper hair all over it. I. Don't. Care. Not to invoke Sinead O'Connor, but "I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant; I can see whomever I choose." It's a pretty liberating way to feel, after emerging from the post-separation, pre-divorce abyss of misery.

I have people that I choose to have in my life because they each bring me value and laughter, and I hope I do the same for them. I'm finally getting to find out who I am and what I want and what I want to do, and it's better than I ever thought possible. I can make my own choices without much consideration to anyone else, and I get to go to a job every day for a great organization with people who are amazing. I am lucky, and I don't want to take any of it for granted.

So, in the words of the Indigo Girls, "After the battles and we're still around, everything once up in the air has settled down, sweep the ashes, let the silence find us." I can still care about Smitty and mean it and be friends with him and not want to plot his death and feed him to sharks with lasers on their heads. Thank God. I don't do well with resentment. I don't see the point.

I wanted to scream, so I sang Chicago

I think I'm suffering from what I can only self-diagnose as "activity overload." I have a life again; it's nice, but now I remember that the last time I had a life this full, I was in my 20s, and my 36 year-old self handles constant activity slightly less well. Don't get me wrong, I much prefer having too much to do to rocking back and forth in the dark listening to Adele (not that I did that), I'm just sort of out of breath.

I don't run unless being chased, but I've heard runners describe hitting "the wall," like when they just don't think they can go any further. I had that feeling on Sunday, after working until 1:45 a.m. Saturday, sleeping some, and then staying out until 2 a.m. Sunday. I felt I had hit the wall, for sure. I don't think I changed out of my pajamas Sunday, and I really didn't feel all that bad for that.

I'm trying to carpe the diem and appreciate all these good changes in my life, but I am starting to realize there are times when I just have to say no to things for preservation of sanity and health. It's very sad that I can't play "American Idol" anymore due to apartment living. I mean, I guess I could. My former upstairs neighbor, also known as "DJ Bucketfeet" certainly had no trouble being extremely loud at all hours of the day, but I do have my pride. I don't want the cops called for a noise complaint to find me belting out "The First Cut is the Deepest."

So, I sing a cappella. I sing Chicago and Sheryl Crow and the Rolling Stones while I'm loading the dishwasher or cleaning or gathering laundry. I figure I don't have the accompaniment of the bass or vocals from the game, so it can't be that loud. If it is, frankly, I don't give a damn. It's not normal to hold in tension. You gotta vent somehow. I have writing and singing badly and my friends. Yes, I get by with a little (a lot) of help from my friends.

Sometimes, I think, I could so easily freak out (again), but thank God, I found a strength in myself I didn't quite know existed. I read a quote today that is my new motto, "My entire life can be described in one sentence: It didn't go as planned, and that's ok." Yep; that pretty well encompasses it. I'm finding that a key element of figuring out what you do want for you life is systematically eliminating what you don't want. Alas, that's a list for another day.

My head is running wild again

There are so many thoughts running through my head just now, it's hard to even organize them to write this blog. My mother averted ovarian cancer, I couldn't be there, the Wonderdog Piper has taken to extreme puppy behavior, I'm taking a new anti-depressant that's making me feel bipolar (freaking great one minute, anxiety-ridden at another), and I just have this feeling like I'm not doing anything right. That's not much, right?

I have divorce papers, revised, and being sent back to the attorney tomorrow, which means by the end of this week, I could be officially divorced. Props to my BFF attorney for helping me when I sorely needed it. It's not even a thing anymore. I have felt divorced for so long, I think the official seal will go out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. I am markedly concerned that I don't know how to be a partner/girlfriend/lady companion anymore without inadvertently bringing the "crazy" that I feel I've acquired. I feel like I've come so far, really, all things considered, but in some ways, I worry that I'm stunted forever, stuck in Needyville as the Mayor, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As an added bonus, due to what I suspect may be Obamacare, I had to change anti-depressants. That's been awesome in the middle of adjusting to a new job and my mother dealing with cancer and a surgery for which I couldn't be there. I'm strangely emotional, dizzy, sleepy and not able to sleep, depending on the day, and I feel a little disconnected from my life. I see my life, as I'm a balloon floating above, and it doesn't look too bad, but I worry that stress or this disconnection is keeping me from completely experiencing it.

Oh, how I don't want to whine. I really, really don't, and I am trying like holy hell to be positive, and I've gotten so much better at it. It's just hard. Life is hard. Damn you, Daddy, when you answered my "That's not fair," with "Life isn't fair," I thought you were just being your quintessential smart ass self. As it turns out, that was dead on.

I also worry, in my myriad of worries, that because I'm trying to give the air of being "perfectly fine," I'm not even being myself, in some ways. There are things I want to say and do and ask, and I think that fear may be holding me back. To quote "Grey's Anatomy," if I'm "scary and damaged," who would want to be around me? Ohhhh, life, you're throwing me all  kinds of little curveballs. I see what you're doing, and I raise you a "you don't know who you're dealing with." I vow to scale back on the freaking out, I have no patience part of my personality, and just have fun and work on myself. God knows, I  need the work. I have some things to prove, it appears.

Oh, so many things tiptoeing through my head

So, here I am, two weeks ensconced in the new apartment. I am now a 36-year-old nearly divorced person living in a one-"bedroom apartment. What I've realized quickly, is that the stuff I demanded keeping for my own well-being (I don't do well with change), is a bit too much for this space. I'm kind of hemmed in by boxes, of mostly books, which I've tried to whittle down, but, these are my books! How do you decide? It's like Sophie's Choice, but obviously not.

I've had a brilliant idea, though. I am not a fan of most of the pictures I own. They either remind me of the icky part of my past or they just don't seem like "me." I am a huge fan of fortune cookie fortunes. I always get the ones that are super "not" fortunes, like "Let your smile be your umbrella," or "Each day is a ray of sunshine." I still love them, though. I still get excited when I read them at the end of a meal. I decided, because, when I moved into this apartment, there was a fortune stuck in the dishwasher, that I am going to buy a canvas and bring these fortunes to life. Send them to me; I'm not kidding. I also know nothing about art or canvasses. Gonna figure it out, like I figured out the hammer/toolkit and everything else for the past year.

I think I feel confused, but  in a good way. I haven't actually had complete independence in about 9 years. It's liberating. I can hang pictures wherever I feel like. I can throw away hideous decorations that I did not choose, and some of them are doozies. Of course, sure, I sleep alone, and I could die with Piper eating my face after a day or so, but, actually, I don't think that will happen. Yes, my life is different, but it feels more intimate than it did a few years ago. I'm connecting with people again, and I have friendily (friends that are family). I feel more like me than I have in a long time, and I have the people around me to thank.

My awesome friend made a promise to take pictures every day of 2014, and I admire her for that. I thought, when she told me that, that I should write every day of this year. I've been bad thus far, but I really want to make that right. Writing is my salvation, confessor, and renewal, and if I don't do it, I can imagine what my life might be.

I guess I look to this year as a genuinely new beginning, a Renaissance-ily, because I need it. I need good things and good people and good energy in my life. I want to be a better person, a better friend, a better writer, a better companion, etc.....I just want to make even a small difference in the world. I want so many things and to do so many different things I've never tried. I think this is my year.

A big, giant, weird Christmas

It's Christmas, right? I'm aware of this by the date and the fact that my mother and I have made a ham and a potato casserole and have the makings of two other casseroles to be assembled tomorrow. I'm not ashamed to admit, I cried a little tonight. Christmas is all akimbo these last few years for me, and this year, I'm sort of non-soluble and writing IOUs for presents. I am at once feeling like a huge douche bag and a liberated human being. Yes, weird.

Every Christmas since my father died, this marks #4, I don't deal terribly well with this holiday. I've recounted things that stuck in my head from my dad to my mom, and she doesn't remember. I can't speak to what resonates with whom, but I have very distinct memories of cooking Christmas Eve dinner at our house and then Christmas dinner at my grandmother's, after early-morning Santa.

My mom didn't even remember when I learned Santa didn't exist. I pried it out of my dad, but I think he was ready to relinquish the late night/early morning Santa duties. I just remember thinking that my parents were giant liars. When I figured out that "Santa" would continue bringing presents, I was pretty much okay, but I do think I asked my dad  how he could be okay with blatantly lying to me. I think he coughed and stuttered and muttered something about wonderment. I just thought they were giant liars.

I was talking to my mom tonight. I think I found about Santa when I was about 8, and I really later questioned how stupid I could be, to believe the whole one man delivering presents to the whole world in one night. How did I buy that? It seemed implausible, but I think it was my last belief in otherworldly magic, that which I could not fully understand, like maybe he and God were working together. It's a giant conspiracy, really, the Santa Tracker on the news, and unless you're a giant asshole, you're keeping that secret from children until you're told otherwise.

Sure, if I have children, I'll let them believe in Santa. I think it encourages wonderment and the belief in magical possibilities. It gives them that glimpse into things that cannot be explained, and that's a good thing. My dad used to attach jingle bells from "the sleigh" to our windows and jingle them when he thought we were sleeping. He only used cursive writing to write "as Santa," because he never wrote in cursive writing, and he and I watched the original Grinch every year. I want to sit and watch it with him so bad, it aches inside me, and I miss his smart-ass sense of humor, that he passed down to me, and no one else in the family gets. So, I settle for my memories and the knowledge that I was loved by him, and he would not want me to wallow and be sad. I just want to hear his voice say my name, but I will settle for his camp recordings and pictures and countless memories and the fact that he knew that I loved him more than anything, and that feeling was completely reciprocated.

I don't like this Christmas. I'll be fine. I get to go nuts with my niece and nephew, and they are precious and my loves and think I'm awesome (for now). I just want to make their Christmas awesome, and I'll deal with my holiday psychosis later. Christmas is for the little people. I enjoyed a handful of adult Christmases, and I'll adjust to enjoying more. Just not maybe this year. Have YOURselves a Merry little Christmas. Everyone deserves it.

Would anyone like a series of good thoughts for Christmas? It's all I can afford.

I am pretty well freaking the hell out. I am moving in 8 days, and I have only now, at this time, come to appreciate the pure lunacy of that. I have no job and like $200 to my name. God bless my coddling mother, or I would be living with a troll under one of the many fine bridges in Birmingham. I do have a very promising job prospect, and hopefully, God is granting me favor after the last shit-kicker of a year and timing everything perfectly so that everything works out just right.

It is absolutely ridiculously expensive to move. To even have your basic utilities activated takes about $300, not to mention the additional security and pet deposits, and pro-rated rent. Oh, and they now require you to have renter's insurance. We bitch about making medical insurance mandatory, but no peeps about mandatory renter's insurance. Hmmm...Kinda makes our priorities a little skewed, if you ask me, but no one did.

I found an endless supply of boxes at the liquor store, but then realized, when wrapping dishes, I have no newspaper. AUGH. Luckily, most of the boxes seem to have individual dividers, but I'm not above using towels or clothes, because if I have to spend one more cent on this move, I'll be the poorest resident living near the Summit.

I've started to think in really bizarre terms, like, what could I sell? I'm already trying to sell my wedding dress, and the only response I got was a weird Craig's List answer about using a cashier's check or something. On a related note, I've decided Craig's List is basically just a cyber meeting place for flim-flammers and giant weirdos. Yes, I said flim flammers. Every job I pursued on there turned out to be a "home-based" one where I would have to deposit money in my account for some nefarious shipping purposes, and every apartment involved swingers, pre-operative transvestites who did not sound fun at all, or people who were fine with themselves owning 11 cats, but not a roommate bringing a small dog.

I could probably sell my blood or plasma, if they still do that. Dammit that I'm not a guy. I would sell my sperm in a heartbeat. That has to be the easiest money you could make. Not invasive, no needles involved...you're gonna be doing that anyway; you may as well get paid for it. Unfortunately, I am not a particularly valuable commodity. If you could get paid for arguing or knowing the state capitals or owning too many shoes, I'm golden, but truly, I would be sunk in a barter society.

Alas, I will have to just console myself with the fact that shortly, I will be the independent state of Emily again, broke or not, and have a new space and a new start and God help me, a new job. The order of things will once again be restored, and I won't have 17 insurance agents calling me with renter's insurance quotes or be paying $200 for a water bill, which includes the actual bill, along with my blood vow to give them a kidney or my first-born in the event I can't pay. Isn't that what Rumpelstiltskin wanted? I think they're all in this mess together.

What doesn't kill you ....I think I finally made it to that second category

Today has been a day. Piper is so hyper from her post-spaying comfort that she is acting like a squirrel on crack, I found out that I WILL have a place to live once the house closes, and I am either getting sick or seriously fighting it. I find that my life seems to be a series of a lot of nothing happening and then something cataclysmic occurs, and we are off to warp speed. I also have either destroyed or Piper had a hand in destroying probably my 9th phone charger this year. I detest this phone, and have spent an estimated total of $100 just on chargers this year. A plague on Samsung's house.

I admit; I sort of thought I might be homeless come house closing date. I have no job; true, my mom is co-signing, but luck has not been my particular strong suit in the last few years. I'm not a pessimist, truly. I'm the one who always tries to infuse humor into the situation, but I feel sometimes like a lot of really funny/extroverted people have expressed they feel: It can be exhausting. I do NOT want anyone to worry about me. I think there are so many other important things in the world on which to focus your concern. Even if I genuinely need worry and concern, I'll tell you that I'm fine.

Is this a bad thing? I dunno. I depended on someone to comfort and console me, and that didn't turn out so great. I don't want to be a distant, cold person, and frankly, I don't think I actually know how to do that, much to my probable imminent demise....death by caring. My grandmother always told me that I was too sensitive, and I never really thought about what that meant, until recently.

I care and love with my whole heart. What you see is what you get. I've always found that to be one of my better qualities, and people that love me have, too. However, I could see where that might've gotten me into trouble. If you love and trust with your whole heart, you get stomped and squished that way, too. What is a girl to do? Be distant and build walls or just jump in to the deep end, regardless?

Speaking of the deep end, I'll tell you a little story. When I was about 7, I went to the public pool for a friend's birthday party. There was a high dive, whose height I couldn't fully gauge, like a standard high dive. No one, would dive from it, no boy, girl, or adult. I said, "Whatever," and dove perfectly into the water. It felt like my skull hit knives when I connected with the water, but I still remember seeing astonished faces as I resurfaced. That's how I want my life to be.

To my detriment, possibly, but I don't do tentative, and I don't do shy and wallflower-esque. I'm no Popeye, but I truly "am what I am." I've figured out, FINALLY, at 36 years, that if you don't like me, the real me, the one that I always project, then that's your problem, not mine. You are not going to turn me into Martha Stewart or June Cleaver or anyone other than Emily Beryl Gaither. I will not make myself small to fit into any more boxes. That is done.

Happy Anniversary to Me....Seriously, Let's All Sing Along

I just realized, about two hours ago, that tomorrow is my seventh wedding anniversary. No danger of the 7-year-itch here, nope, that happened at five years, 11 months. Whew, problem averted. Ha. It's funny, funny ha-ha or funny strange, your choice, on how completely different my head space is now vs. one year ago.

A year ago this time, I literally did not want to leave my bed, unless it was to drink a vat of wine or eat fried food. Yep, that was it, carbs and liquor, those were my motivators. I can remember going a number of days without showering or changing clothes; that's super hot, right? I stopped shaving my legs and just sort of gave in to the idea of waking up in the morning and that being my accomplishment for the day.

Flash forward to now: Maybe I'm not all filled in, like a human lasagna, but I'm getting there. It took so many stupid, dumbass decisions for which I completely take credit, for me to pull my over-analytical, over-educated (hopefully, soon to be more so) head out of my stupid ass. My life is not over because of a divorce. My faith in certain things is shaken, and I can't change that, no matter what, but I am still here.

My life is what I choose to make of it. If I want to learn guitar like I've always wanted, by God, I will. I plan to start my Master's in English in the summer. What will I do with it? I don't fucking care. It's what I WANT TO DO. I can do whatever I want, and I should've always been suspect of anyone who didn't agree with that plan. I have cow-towed and bent perpendicular, and been a doormat in the hopes of  being happy. You know what? I wasn't.

I know I have depressive issues; believe me, I know. However, I do truly believe that I deserve to be happy and to be appreciated. Yes, I may be an acquired taste. I'm a huge nut. I hate cleaning. I would rather drink wine, read, and watch old episodes of Grey's Anatomy. But, I've never hidden these things. I am at 36 what I was at 6, 16, and 26. I've matured, of course, but I am the same person I have been and will ever be. If I'm right, I will argue you to the death, but on the flip side, if I care about you, I will throw myself in front of oncoming traffic to protect you.

So, tomorrow is my 7th wedding anniversary, and soon after, I will bid my marriage adieu. It was a learning experience that I wish I had when I was in my 20's rather than 30's, but I stand by my steadfast assertion. I don't regret experiences and wish I could take them back. Without those experiences, I wouldn't be me. I kind of like me. Other people seem to agree, and I am free to open up to whatever future I choose. Me. It's my future, and I'm starting to realize what makes this girl happy.

Reawakening

I was on the floor and under the bed and fine with that. The future wasn’t a
thing.  It was a vague, shapeless fog with which I wanted nothing to do.
I saw smiling boys with their carnival tricks and smooth, slick words, and it
made me retreat further.

Creativity dies when living in a vacuum. I took up residence in a Hoover Upright
and wanted to stay there. I felt comfortable among the lint and dirt. I was secure 
in my lack of worth and knew that I belonged with the other castaway material.
The buttons and old change and I had a party to celebrate our uselessness.

Ruddiness has returned to my cheeks and humor to my life. You may end up being 
a figment of my imagination, and that’s okay, too.
The idea of the possibility of someone like you, who revels in my existence is 
enough for now.

It's really all about adjustment; I'm just slow

I am incredibly smart at some things, yet incredibly super slow at others. It has literally taken me over a year to pull my well-educated and intelligent head out of my ass and realize that even if my marriage is over, I am not. I still have good things to offer, and I have my whole life ahead of me. It only took one full year. Good thing I'm not a dog; I would've lost seven.

Speaking of dogs, Piper had her spaying surgery done today, and I felt like the world's worst human companion leaving her there while she was shaking like a leaf. I know she needs it, and it's better for her, but it didn't help the massive guilt trip I felt when she looked at me like, "How can do you this to me?" My hope is that it makes her stop trying to run away, and I also cannot even remotely deal with puppies. My dog will not be an unwed, pre-teen mother.

I am scheduled to be out of the house that I have known for the past five years in less than a month. Am I happy about this? Not entirely. Here are my thoughts: I am glad the house has sold, because when you're going through a divorce, you have all these loose ends. This is an end that will be tied, and I'm glad to see it. However, this is the one constant I've known for five years, and even when our marriage hit the fan, I had this place as a refuge. I have chipmunks, squirrels, etc...and my privacy. I now have to move to an apartment where I might have a crazy cat lady who bakes coming over. I dunno; I just don't like people. Is that so bad?

I am trying to behave like a great white shark. There is only forward movement and little rest. Oh, and I'll kill you if you get in my way...kidding. Seriously, I have never needed my inner strength like I need it now when so many rather large changes are going on in my life. I knew I had this strength; I just kind of have to summon it like a demon or genie.

Have you ever experienced a really tough time and something, however small, made you pull out of the nosedive and join the nice society again? I've had that experience. It was sort of a combination of things to metaphorically slap my clueless face and put me back in Emily mode. Oh, the world's in trouble now. I'm on a mission to prove my merit and worth, and you can say you knew me when I just wrote a blog...:P

Away I Go....

So, after much back and forth introspection, I am back in Birmingham, which is now my new, permanent home. I admit it; I was emotionally beaten and exhausted, and I thought that I couldn't possibly function here in the "big city" with just little ol' me and no husband. I kinda lost it and ran to my childhood home with my tail tucked to think about regrouping .... and I came to the most amazing realization. Home and my future are wherever I am.

Home is a great concept. I had a wonderful home growing up, and it gave me that "shelter from the storm" feeling until just recently. While I was kind of writhing in the self-pity of my separation and pending divorce, the worst feelings I had were those where I literally could not name what or where would make me feel better. I hate that; that used to only happen when I was sick, that feeling like you're so miserable, that there is nothing that would improve that. Nope, that's also called adulthood.

I realized that if I have to live with my mother to regroup because I'm sad, then I'm really never going to find good footing and be okay with myself. I decided to forge ahead, mildly terrified, and sink or swim on my own. Well, not completely on my own. The majority of my support system is actually here in Birmingham. The life I had when I lived in Mississippi doesn't really exist anymore, and there are no promising opportunities. I would have gotten a crappy job, probably decided not to go back to school, and probably married a complete dumbass. No thanks, I've already been to that carnival. (Disclaimer: my husband isn't a dumbass, we just didn't work, I don't want to be THAT girl, bad-mouthing the ex)

I'm actually excited. This is the first time in almost 8 years that I have to answer to no one but myself. It's liberating, to say the least. I can do whatever the freaking hell I want, (within reason and not using midgets or monkeys) and no one can say shit about it. I like that. I want to get in touch with my real, non-depressed self again and rediscover how fabulous I can be..ha...I partially jest. I actually do think I'm pretty fabulous, and I can now choose who surrounds me. I vow as little negativity as possible with as much laughter and adventure as possible.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell, right now you can't tell

I think once you embrace that you're having a minor nervous breakdown, life becomes a little easier. To clarify, I don't mean to denigrate people who are having or have had an actual nervous breakdown, I know I'm having a "First World Problem," and I'm trying to take it for what it is.

I got married, I'm getting divorced, I have depression, and I have no idea what to do with my life. There. There it is in a nutshell. Oh, and my uterus is drying up as we speak, so I may never have children...I think that's the meat of the emotional rollercoaster I'm riding. I know I'm not the first person on this ride, but as I may have mentioned repeatedly, I have minimal (at best) coping skills. I find that I have a really strong urge to just scream. Not at anyone, just scream until I feel better. I may try it...just in a department store. No, I kid...about the department store, not the screaming. Maybe I can start a Scream Therapy group.

I've been sleeping in my childhood room since Saturday. If you want to feel like a real winner, I suggest doing that with the realization that you don't know when you'll have the wherewithal to sleep somewhere that you either own or on which you pay rent. Also, my room is tiny. I guess I didn't notice this growing up, as I was rarely in there, and I, too, was smaller, but I feel like Andre the Giant sleeping in a milk crate.

When I say I don't know what to do with my life, I'm not being hyperbolic. In fact, I hope I don't run into any members of a cult in the next little while, because I would be very suggestible. You worship chipmunks and wear bras on your heads? That sounds amazing! So we live in underground bunkers and an Oompa Loompa is our leader? What a brilliant idea! I am totally in!

All I can say right now is that I am enjoying singing at the top of my lungs again, appreciating the written word, and the fact that I am tabula rasa. I can go live in Tibet with the Sherpas, or I can join the Peace Corps, neither of which are very likely, but I can do them if I want. I lost myself somewhere along the way in the last 6-8 years, and the upside of that, is that I get to find myself. I remember myself being delightful, so I think it will be worth it.