Butterflies? Or Maggots???

I figured I'd better document how I feel.

Today was my first day of work.  Meetings and such. 

I am exhausted.  My head is swimming.  I feel overwhelmed and underprepared.

I also feel nauseated.  I felt nauseated last night and also this morning.  My body is trying to tell me something.  It could be that the stress is making me nauseated--though that has never happened before.  Usually stress causes... other intestinal issues.  But not nausea.

Maybe my body is telling me that something is up with my medication.  I'm not sure why now.

Maybe my body is telling me there's a serious medical condition.

MAybe I contracted triple E!! 

Maybe my body is trying to show me just how not-right I am for this career?

Maybe it is nothing more than a summer bug.

Maybe I have a tooth coming in. . . wait... that only works for babies, right?

So I'm exhausted.  I have a ton of shit to get done tonight that I don't have time or energy to do.

Fun way to start the year.  I am never kind to myself, am I?

Can I have another month? Please?

 No, Vaguely threatening and suspiciously militant pencils, no I surely am not.

not ready.

Absolutely losing my mind here.

Feel like running away.

When you're a grown up there's another name for that, i think.

The proverbial clock is ticking like a mother fucker and I want out of this nightmare!

When is Closure not Closure?

When it's ajar!

No.  Seriously.

I've never had a real breakup. Not really.  I met Aaron when I was 13.  We started dating when I was 14.  We broke up once.  That was real.  But the thing is-- we got back together and it all worked out.  Happily the fuck ever fucking after. 

So when I fell in love this time--and fell really fucking hard--and it really truly really honestly couldn't work?  Whoosh.  Rough. 

Ok.  I won't use euphemisms.  It was brutal.  Talk about broken heart.  Ripped out, wrung out, and then left for vultures.

My fault.  I own it.  I accept all the blame. 

But.  Sheesh.

The self-doubt that accompanies it.  The miserable self-loathing.  The vitriol and the what if.  The weeping and the wondering. 

So.  I had my very first break-up.  No matter how we swore we'd still be friends.  It just couldn't happen.  Not right away.  I waded in too far, nearly drown myself, and so, naturally, needed to stay out of those dark, murky waters for a while. 

So how does one find closure if they're too chicken-shit to go back and look for it?  They don't.  They live with lingering questions and they cling to the mistakes and the good times both.  They exist in this toxic, miasmic sort of limbo where everything is distrorted, very little is real, and it makes healing a slow, torturous process.

But how in heaven's name can there be closure when no one really closes a door?  No one really says final words, goodbyes, fare-thee-wells and puts the whole debacle in the past?

I don't know, but I guess I'm going to find out :)

Because the roads of communication are open once more. 

And I didn't crumple.  And I didn't make a complete ass of myself.  And honestly?  It felt pretty good.  I can say I was breathing easier after than I was before.

So.  In tumblr fashion, a pictorial representation of my reunion:

Walked 4 miles through Borderland!

A lot of catching up to do! I talked her ear off about my issues!

Healthy Fruit Picnic

Confession Time. 

Spirituality and Souls.

This painting is entitled "Leap of Faith"

Friends.  Warm Feelings.  Plans for next time.

So healing begins?  Feels like a bandaid on a compound fracture, lol, but its a start!

My Tumblr

School is starting soon.  My new Job.  A new school year.  I barely survived my first year, and everyone kept telling me 'the first year is the hardest'.  But, really, essentially, this is a first year all over again.  First time in a new school district.  First time teaching this grade.  New curriculum. 

Last time I posted I lamented that I was not a visual artist.  A friend of mine was recently called to visual expression--and how freeing and healthy that must feel. 

I have been called to further self destruction. 

So.  behold.  The pictographic representation of my thoughts, feelings, and whatever, on the upcoming school year, my life, my future, and my every living moment.

**Disclaimer: none of the pictures are of my own creation.  They are all stolen from other sources--from people who actually have talent and ability, and drive enough to post their work on the internets.  You should know by now that I have no know-how, ability, talent, or drive for such things.  I am merely ripping off the work and art of other people.

In no particular order... the state of my being:

Only you'll never catch me in tights!

Tumblr?

My husband turned thirty today!  I did everything I could to make the day easy, relaxed, and enjoyable.

We worked on painting our tetris shelves; we went to breakfast at Persy's (DEfuckingLICIOUS); we chillaxed; we watched MONK; We cuddled; we got fine cheeses and bread to eat for dinner; we were very kind and pleasant and loving.

In a bit we will be more romantic...  I mean, we already did that this morning too, but we'll do more of it...

But the thing I wanted to write about was the fact that he started a Tumblr page.  Account?  I'm not even sure what Tumblr is/does, other than have the best fucking pornographic images on the net. 

So I went and checked it out.  And it made me sad.  Sad because I am not and never will be a VISUAL ARTIST.  I'm not a photographer, a sculptor, a painter.  I don't draw or sketch.  I can't do much more than open photoshop before I'm hopelessly lost. 

So it loooks like I won't have a tumblr. 

I don't usually let the fact that I am not a VISUAL artist bother me.  It irks me sometimes when working on a show, but usually I accept the things I cannot change and move on.  But I've always kinda wished I could express myself like that. 

Instead my art lies in how I ...what?  Interpret a role someone else has written?  Perform a song someone else has composed?  Direct people to stand and move in a play someone else has created?

Yeck.

Or, dare I fantasize that my art lies in how I string words together?  That I am an artist of a writer? 

No.  Not even remotely. 

I'm pretty great at sex, but I'm not sure that's a visual art, as I am in the worst shape of my life.

So what would I do on my tumblr?

Sigh.

I'll just have to press my nose to the window of visual genius.  Shivering out in the cold I'll wistfully gaze at the pictoral party.

but I'm happy to have had a lovely day with my tri-decade man!

Quotes, Lists, and Stars

"But I'm getting ahead of myself..."

That's me.  That's what I do.  I get ahead of myself.  I always have.  Mountains out of molehills and whatnot.  Where normal folks see a situation for what it is and what it could be, I take a situation, read WAYYYYYYY too much into it and begin constructing castles on clouds.

"Don't get your hopes up" is what people have always had to caution me.  Because I do.  I don't just get my hopes up a bit, my hopes, my hopes go sky high.  They go intergalactic.  You might be able to imagine, then, just how very steep a fall it inevitably is when my hopes are dashed.

Unreasonable expectations. 

Unreasonable delusions, really.

I move too fast, get too excited, jump in with both feet and all the rest of me.  Sopping wet and too often drowning because I never thought to pause long enough to construct a life preserver.  Or an anchor.  Or a pier.  Or a way out.

Just plunge right in.

"Everything will be OK" is what Aaron continually assures me.  I think probably my mother has said that too.  She's an optimist to the point of pure delusion as well. 

But will it be ok?  Really?  I go back and forth (what a surprise, right?). 

To some extent I expect that it will be OK.  As long as I have the love of my best friend and partner, I imagine I can face anything.

But OK?  Really?  What's the metric on that?  Is there a standard by which we're measuring the OK-ness?

Things I'm grateful for:

Health (physical.  we're working on mental and spiritual...it's a process, I'm told...)
Love; of my husband, my friends, my family, my pets (hey, they are always there to cuddle.)
Roof over my head, and a place to call my own (incredibly grateful for this).
Job (very blessed.  very.)
Food (we hardly ever struggle with not having enough to eat.  Thank you, universe, family, and friends.)
Freedom (I live in a democracy and am not incarcerated.  I am free)
The Internet (freedom of information, access to the world at my fingertips...incredible)
Games (board, card, word, video.  They engage my mind and often engage me with others)


OK.  Not so bad.  I guess everything will be OK.  Maybe even a bit better than OK.  I have alot.  Maybe I need to remind myself of that more often.

Things I am afraid of/burdened by/worried about/stressing over

MONEY (not having nearly enough, never mind any extra)
BILLS (they never stop and I just can't pay them all)
TIME (I can't slow it down, nor speed it up.  It keeps going, and I feel shackled by it, to it.)
My Parents.  (They are deteriorating.  They need help that I can't give.)
My Job.  (Will I be any good?  Will I be able to keep this one?  How can I succeed at this one where I failed at the last one?)
Career.  (Am I even in the right profession? What's my real calling?  Will I ever find it, or be content?)
MOTHERHOOD (everyone expects it--but do I want it?  When?  How?  If?!)
Marriage.  (Am I doing it right?  I keep fucking up.  When will I be worthy of this person?)
HEALTH (Mental.)
HEALTH (Spiritual)
HEALTH (Weight)
HOUSE (will we?  when?  How?  If?  WHEN?  Where?  HOW???????????)
Cleaning (because it is loathsome)
Responsibilities (because I suck at them)
Rent (because it is always due.)
Confusion (because it lingers, it plagues me and won't let me live in peace)
Time.
Money.
 The will to live.  It comes and goes. And that's not a good thing.

So, as you can see, there's the flip-side.

How to focus on the positive.  That's the objective.  Sometimes the effort it takes to simply focus on the positive and work toward healthy, sometimes that exhausts me so completely that I can't seem to muster the energy to do everything else I'm supposed to do.

A friend asked if I was still writing.  And for whatever reason, the question keeps popping up in my head.  I answered truthfully, I told her 'no'.  Because I'm not.  I mean, jesus, when she asked I hadn't even made a blog entry in over a month.  I answered truthfully.  So why does the question haunt me?

I think about writing.  Daily.  But don't do it.  I even stopped re-reading and tweaking my old writing.  I let everything go.

But now.

Aaron and I went out in the wee hours to watch the Perseid meteor shower the other night.  It was overcast and we didn't see much action.  But we saw one glorious, blazing, breathtaking shooting star.  It made me giddy and I opened my mouth and exclaimed just like a little kid. It was brilliant, burnt right through the haze and lit up the sky.

And I was so in awe that I forgot to think of a wish.  Couldn't even formulate one.  I tried to slap one on it after-the-fact, but I don't know how much it will count.  Is it like the 5-second rule for dropped food items?  I used an old stand-by wish.  The kind you fervently wish whenever you can.  A good one, but, you know, not very original.  Not a wish worthy of this amazing celestial gift, I don't think.

 

 

Once Brazen and Electric

I learned the hard way that just taking the requisite pills isn't enough to fix me.

That darkness lurks around every bend; waiting; ready; hungry.

My struggle isn't something that I can simply medicate away. 

And mortality looms... finality teases and taunts and tortures me.

And I'm forced to move forward.  To keep breathing.  To keep ... subsisting... to continue on into the unknown, and to do so exposed, vulnerable, frightened.

What choices are there, really?

Agreements made in desperation, promises signed in need--now come to collect.  Would that I could simply give them a pound of flesh!  How gladly I'd part with that.  But it isn't something so trivial as flesh they want.

It's my soul they're after.  My life-that-might-have-been.  My dreams they dismantle and repossess. 

And I'm forced to move forward.  I keep breathing, despite.  I keep functioning, an automaton, a shell.

I wake up every day.  I find some joy, some warmth, some laughs and some love.  A great deal of love, for which I am continually grateful and constantly humbled.

And escape is ever on my mind.  In my bones.  My pulse.

Escape.  Not solutions.  Because solutions seem to me at this point, as futile and far-fetched as the winning ticket in a lottery.  Solutions are for other people--and look how well they're managing! 

But me?  I want out.  Away.  New Beginnings.  Fresh, clean, unburdened. 

I guess I want to hope again.  To dream without fear of watching those dreams torn down before my eyes.  Dismantled piecemeal, to give way to expenses and banal realities and crushing responsibilities.

I want to be brazen and electric again-- if ever I was... surprising and spontaneous and bold.

Wellness seems such a far way off at this point.  And I'm already so thoroughly exhausted and disillusioned by this journey.

Wellness.

Wholeness.

Passionless

So, after--what--a month or more of trying to find a new direction for my blog, I have yet to hit on anything that interests me enough to sustain daily, or even weekly writing.

This inability to land on a passion is rather alarming to me.  It indicates that I have (gasp) no passion.  No verve.  No special purpose (lol.  have you seen The Jerk with Steve Martin?).

It is no secret that I hadn't felt passionate about teaching English.  Nor should it be a surprise that since a failed theatre endeavor, I hadn't been feeling anything more than malaise for theatre, teaching theatre, and the like.  And, incidentally, I assure you, Spell-check, that I know how to spell theatre.  The little red squiggle underneath the word every single time is more than irritating.  It is downright maddening.  I have an entire degree in Theatre.  Nay, make that TWO mother-fucking degrees in Theatre.  Now, I'll be the first to admit that I make plenty o'spelling errors, but THEATRE is not among them.

For the lay audience:

Theatre= the art form. 
Theater= the buolding in which it is housed.

"I went to see a piece of theatre last night at the brand new Globe Theater."  See?  Ta-daaaaaa.

Isn't there SOMEONE at spell-check headquarters that could explain this simple distinction and alter the programming?  It feels almost as if the spell-check is invalidating an entire life spent in the pursuit and dedication to the art form.  Like it isn't real.  Made up.  Some bull shit major, instead of the oldest form of expression and teaching under the sun.  Second only to goddamned prostitution.  No red line under that one.  Prostitution is well accepted by spell-check.  Grrr.

Anywho.

School, and my career in B-rock, has just ended.  Summer program has just begun.  I am tired.  Bone-tired.  And need, desperately need, a vacation.

But I won't get one until mid august.

Would you further like to know the difference between Drama and Theatre?  Maybe next time, folks.  Don't want to give away all the secrets at once, do we?  I have paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in theoretical money for these chestnuts, and I can't be spilling the beans in one silly blog entry, now can I?

Second interview today.

Let me put it into the universe:  I want to land this job.

I used to think it was a jinx.

I'm trying to put the positive spin on it and believe in putting it into the universe.

I want to get this job.  Please.

Aaron's going to iron my blouse when he awakes.

The rest, as they say, is up to me.

Lamesauce

My husband tells me, and the children with whom he works: "If you're bored, you're boring."

I'm bored right now.

Of course I SHOULD be doing plenty of things.  It is the end of the year and it is a veritable whirlwind of last-minute-ry. But the truth is that the doing of those things would result in making me both more bored and infinitely more boring.

so I do the twenty-first century equivalent of twiddling my thumbs; I search the internet, following one whim after  another, time ticking away until I must meet (with half a heart and even less of a brain) my next of the day's many obligations.

Idle hands are the devil's playthings.

But here idle hands are restricted to work-safe sites.

So, really, idle hands are just the playthings of a task-avoidant middle school teacher.

Which is infinitely more boring.

The Long Goodbye

Perhaps:  The Reinvention of Ms. Reardon

Or:  Square Pegs in Round Holes; an exploration.

Still pondering.

And amazed at how very very long these next few weeks will be.  In so very many ways.

Today was one of those very long days--and it ain't over yet.  I still have to go to HR, then to therapy.  Good Grief.

idea?

hmmm.

still no idea on a theme for the ole blogarooney.

how can I be so terribly uninspired?

perhaps it is just the end of a long, long school year sapping my juices.

maybe I ought to use the name of the blog as inspiration!

Incomparable!  I could blog about things I deem incomparble.  things, people, ideas, whatevers.

I'll mull that over.

I am definitely still taking suggestions.

meanwhile--keep being fiercely incomparable my darlings!

THEME PARTY!

Arrrrrrr.  The title of this blog post be intentionally misleadin' ye....

Many blogs have a theme.  Topics that they cover.  This keeps them from becoming, as mine has always been, someone's public diary.

So I had to ask myself-- if I were to blog-- REALLY BLOG, the way the art form has developed-- what on Earth would I blog ABOUT?

There are tons of blogs about being a vegetarian, featuring recipes and humorous anecdotes about the shopping hazards and the numerous misunderstandings we veggies find ourselves in at social gatherings.

There are blogs about how to make your food items appear anthropomorphic.  As if I didn't already have enough trouble simply assembling the food in the first place.

There are plenty of teacher blogs out there--chock full of lesson plans, sage advice, and humorous anecdotes about the hilarity which ensues when students misunderstand, or posit, or say dumb things.

Knee slappers, am I right teachers?

There are any number of theatre blogs!  Blogs worshipping the art form; blogs giving tips on performing monologues and scenes; audition blogs; broadway gossip blogs; blogs for drama teachers, featuring hints and tips, humorous anecdotes, materials, links, resources...

So cuuuuuuuuute!  But seriously.  I've got a BFA and a fucking Master's degree in this shit, and I gotta tell ya:         JAZZ HANDS--they fucking WORK!

There are PLENTY (and I do mean PLENTY) of sex related blogs.  All the kinds of sex you could want to investigate?  They're out there.   Oral Blogs, Anal Blogs, Fisting Blogs, Fingering Blogs, Dominant blogs, submissive blogs, menage-a-blogs, swinger blogs, orgy blogs, gay les bi transgender blogs, and a whole whole whole lot more.

Something for everyone.  Hey, I don't judge.

There are video game blogs, for players, designers, and aficionados.

There are blogs for all interests.  Parenting blogs.  Eco friendly blogs.  Tattoo blogs.  TV blogs. Photo blogs. Music blogs.  Bob Loblaw's Law Blog.  Shoe blogs, bag blogs, fashion blogs, HIGH fashion blogs, fashion-on-a-buget blogs.  Style blogs, engineering blogs, science blogs, pirate blogs, history blogs, future blogs, decorating blogs, secret blogs, thank-you blogs of appreciation, baking blogs, baked blogs, grammar blogs, arts-and-crafts blogs and, subsequently, blogs that will ridicule ridiculous arts and crafts;  blogs about how to blog.  Blogs that rank the best blogs. 

There are blogs featuring photos of dogs upside down and then flipped right-side up.  Seriously.

Literally.  A blog for all needs, all conceivable interests, whims, notions, and fancies.  A blog for all diets, budgets, countries, circumstances and specifications.  A blog for kittehs, comedy, and failure on all levels.

Starting to feel me?

So what, in the name of all that is good and true and original in this world, would I ever choose as the "Theme" of this blog?

I will ruminate on this awhile.  Because I believe it would be a great goal and exercise to set for myself to try and keep with a theme.

Afterall, I gave myself the challenge of writing daily, and I accomplished that.  Not to say anything great came of it... but I ACCOMPLISHED it, goddammit, and that is what we call an ACHIEVEMENT.  Small and personal though it may be, it is something about which I glow with pride.

So I'mma think on what I might not hate blogging about time and again, and get back to you.  I will try and think of something that is flexible but definitely narrowed.  Narrowed down from 'anyfuckingthingthatcomesintomyconsciousness' will be a nice sort of filter to start with, won't it?

And one of my favorite blogs:  A comic blog that takes The work of Jim Davis, and makes one small edit to it, that catapults it from cute sunday-morning funnies into the upper echelon of bizarrely genius social commentary, and a disturbingly hilarious look at the human condition... Garfield Minus Garfield.

And the runner up for the SEX BLOGS:

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk

The reality of it.

I had anticipated the end of my first school year feeling like sweet, giddy relief. 

Instead it is more stressful and jaw-clenching than the beginning of the year was.

Teaching has not gotten easier.  Classroom management has gotten harder. 

And I feel as though I'm back at the drawing board--life wise.

I'm sorry to post in such a blue mood.  I have honestly been more upbeat on a more regular basis than I have been in years (YEARS, folks.), but I guess there are still bound to be off days.

Good news items:  I have a baby nephew scheduled to be delivered THIS WEEK!  We're bummed that it has to be c-section, but the tubby little guy is growing very big and being stubborn about getting into position, so I guess they're going in after him!  Oh my goodness, a whole new person to meet and love!

And a mystery baby is also due any time now.  My sister-in-law told me to 'pack a bag', because she went four weeks early with her first child.  So I could be getting that middle-of the night phone call any night, telling me to get my sleepy ass over to their apartment to watch their sleeping babes.

And I do suppose, at the end of the day, that I will be enormously relieved when this school year is through.  When I can stop pretending.  When I can move on to summer.

And who knows where else from there?

I wish I had the courage to make some huge leap of faith.  To radically change who I am, what I do, and where I'm headed.

But if you've met me you'll know I'm a soul wrought with anxieties.  A spirit fettered in the relentless shackles of doubt and misgivings.  Afraid.  Lacking the confidence to even form a dream, let alone follow one.

Everything I can think of that I'd like/love/want to do for a living?  I end up convincing myself that I am unqualified/too inexperienced/don't stand a chance/could never break into the industry now.

So the end of this year is looking bleaker than I'd imagined.

I'm counting my blessings.  I'm awash with silver linings.  I'm seeing bright sides.  I'm looking for those open windows as the door slams hard on my ass.

But I'm tired.  My determination is a grim, uninspired, resigned sort of thing.

I'm here but I'm not.  And I'm so very painfully here.

I imagined it differently.

Isn't that always the case?

All the Happy...

It has become clear that I went into the wrong profession.  There's just too much.  Too much I don't know, too much I'm too far behind on, too much political crap, too much at stake, too much of a learning curve, too much to learn in too little time.

I knew there'd be a difference between teaching drama and teaching English.  I was a fool to ever think I was even vaguely qualified for this position.

 Am I a complete disaster?  No.  No, I'm not.  I think I've done some decent work here.  I believe I've done more good than harm.  But that isn't enough.  It just isn't enough to be mediocre in this line of work.  Our students need and deserve the very best.  The most capable.  The brilliant, the innovative, the inspired, the creme de la creme.

I don't want to be the stereotype; I can't do anything else, so I'm a teacher.

However.

What the hell else am I going to do now?

I've sunk my financial future into this sinking ship.  Looks like I'll be bailing for a while, unless I can figure out--quick--how to build myself one hell of a liferaft.

Actor
Singer
Director
Writer
Children's author
Playwright
Screenwriter 
Award-winning blogger
Drama Teacher
Drama Professor
English Teacher
'50's housewife (I don't clean)
Prostitute (no bennies)
Entrepreneur

 My mother suggested I look into real estate.

Aaron recently suggested I should break into porn directing.  When I gave him 'that look', he shrugged and said that it might be time to start thinking outside the box.  Or all up inside the box. 

In any event, it is beginning to look like all my skills and credentials will not be the source of my success.  I have ZERO capital to invest in a re-education campaign.  This is it.  It is looking bleak. 

Is there a way I can get paid to do whatever the fuck I feel like?

I'd probably suck at that too.

"But I don't really feel like doing that."
"I don't understand, all you have to do is whatever you want..."
"Yeah, I'm not comfortable with that much creative control.  I'd rather be told what to do once in a while..."

I'm beginning to think I just may never find the balance.  Never find peace and joy in the career realm.  Perhaps it is because I have so much peace and joy in the love and family realm-- perhaps I've tipped the scales too far.  Perhaps it just isn't possible for ordinary folks to have all the happy. 

Poor Nutsy

"Through the 'One Way Door', sister."

Springtime Brings New Rosies!

It has been a brutal first week back after vacation.

I am beat!

When my kids describe someone as 'beat' they mean ugly.  I feel ugly lately too.  Which isn't great for my sex drive.  Or self confidence.  Or my attitude toward anything, really.  My husband was quite 'handsy' this morning, and when he gets 'handsy' it gets him very ready to have sex, and I just could not take advantage of that magnificence.  He wanted me to climb up and ride it, and while I made excuses that we didn't have time (both had somewhere to be at 8fuckingthirty this SATURDAY morning) because I'd need a shower and didn't have time for a post-coital shower, and also I had to pee too much to fuck (both these excuses were absolutely true--I don't lie to Aaron), the reality was that the reason that was more pressing than time or bladder was the paralyzing self consciousness I was suffering this morning.  The thing is that I'd already told him of this too, but sometimes it seems like he thinks the cure for my poor body image is to devour my body--almost to prove that I am attractive and desirable and beautiful.  It is a nice sentiment, and often times helps me by bolstering my confidence in our chemistry and compatibility, today it only made me more self conscious.  Every spot his hands touched made me cringe inwardly--wishing that spot was...less of a spot, i guess.  slimmer, smoother, tighter, you name it. Oh, and bigger and fuller in the case of my breasts of course.

I think about last spring.  How sexy and alive I felt.  Of course these doubts lingered underneath, too, but... No.  Who am I kidding?  These doubts were rampant then too. I am (VERY) often relieved that I am married--meaning that I don't have to date, don't have to RISK, don't have to get naked in front of new people!

What was I supposed to be writing about though?  I certainly hadn't intended to get so detailed there about the recent insecurities, or the recent resurgence of the old insecurities...

Oh, the week back to work.  Rough.  On many levels.  I'm certainly physically exhausted.  Last night was friday, my night to stay up late, do whatever I wanted, enjoy myself, etc!   I ended i ended up in bed by 8:45.  LAME!

And it is one of the first weeks that's had me looking at where else I can apply to work.  Ugh.  Even as I type that I feel traitorous.  I really do like my school.  The colleagues have been incredibly supportive.  I feel a real affection for the kids, too (most of them), I rally do. 

But I wonder if I'm not cut out for it.  Obviously.  Have we met?  Of course. 

Did I tell you about my New Rosies?  One day after therapy I was telling Aaron what my therapist had been saying about my issues.  He was in the other room, though and the train of thought hadn't been exactly straight.  It was, as many of our conversations do, a meandering journey of free association and random interjections of things we'd been meaning to tell the other but kept forgetting...  Anyhow, I said something about my Neuroses (plural, not just one neurosis).  He asked me to repeat the phrase and I did, moving on quickly to the main point of what I had been saying.

He was quiet as he puzzled it out, finally exclaiming: "Oh!  Neuroses!" 

"Yeah, what'd you think I said?"

"It dounded like you said something about your 'new rosies', both times you said it, and I just couldn't figure out why you were talking about 'new rosies'.  Like, what happened to your 'old rosies', and why are we making roses sound so cutesy?"

Needless to say, "New Rosies" has stuck.

One of my New Rosies is to believe that I am not worthy of things.  Jobs, accolades, love, etc.  So naturally I feel like I'm not cut out for the job of 8th grade english teacher at this school which is under a microscope--an underachieving school that needs a wonder-team and a miracle to turn around and pull through before the state takes it over.

But here's the tricky thing about those damn rosies-- how do I figure out when it's a mental issue and when there's some truth to it?  If everything is my neurosis, how can I ever trust when something might be an ACTUAL problem.  Like, what if I really am not the right person for this incredibly important task?  I want to be the one who helps these kids.  But what if I can't?  What if I don't have it and it might be something I can't learn(or can't learn fast enough)?

I've gotta run--got a jazz concert to go see--my niece has a trumpet solo!

Anyway.  To summarize:  tired, tired of my self-image, tired of working for a living (get used to it, right?!), tired of feeling inadequate, tired of feeling ... ug... tired of FEEEEEEEELING! lol.

But loving the spring, loving the weather, loving many, many many things!  Wishing I had time to garden!  But loving the spring!

Once upon a time....

I'm a storyteller.

More than a writer.

I've evaluated, and I've decided that some people are writers.  They love to write.  They love to craft sentences just so--they take careful measure of each word, every comma, the syntax, the letters, the poetry of their prose.  They also tell stories, naturally, of course they do.  But the art and craft of writing is enjoyable to them. 
delicious, even.  Sumptuous.  They dig in with verve and ensconce themselves within the trenches of those letters, those paragraphs, those subjects and predicates and they make art out of each syllable.  Not a single word out of place, not a semicolon misplaced.  Artists of and with the written word.

While I, too, have a fondness for word-choice, a lust for the lexicon, a thing for the thesaurus, more often than not the art of my prose falls by the wayside in the interest of getting the STORY out.  I find grammar and editing a huge, irritating stumbling block, and frequently eschew the rules in favor of what feels right in the moment as the story pours out.

Not that the stories are necessarily of any quality, but that's the way it is with me.

I have often become disheartened whilst reading a quality writer's work.  Admiring the gorgeous creation before my eyes whilst simultaneously lamenting my own childish, amateurish abilities.  And I wonder 'why can't I write like THIS?'  I mean, storylines aside, soap opera versus oscar-winning story aside, why the fuck can't I compose like this? 

I ridicule myself for the shit that I've shat, the putresence that has flowed from this brain and these clumsy fingers, and I brood about it. 

Because a soap opera is a soap opera not because of the storylines.  It's the mediocre, hackneyed writing and the d-list quality of the performances (and the filming style etc..)

In another form those same plot lines and character archetypes are greek myth, are biblical, are classical literature, are fairytales, are opera, are award-winning, gripping, must-see academy award winning plotlines.  They are human truths, with themes that run deep, to the heart and core of who we are as a people, as a society, as a culture, as a species.  The scandalous, the broken moral codes, the things we'd like to keep secret about ourselves and can't get enough of exposing in others. The what and the why, the who and the where of the human experience.

But when Steinbeck writes it it is art.

When Nora Roberts writes it, it is kinda schlocky.

When I write it?

Have I mentioned that my therapist tells me I have unrealistic expectations about career and performance?  An unrealistic perception of myself and an unhealthy need for an unattainable perfection?

In anycase.  I'm a storyteller more than I am a writer.

The metaphorical blossoms in my garden.

My therapist tells me that spring is the worst season for the mental health industry--people think it's the holidays, christmas and such, but that it's actually now.  She says that when the world starts to come into bloom, come alive and flourish, and a depressive is still gray and wintery, the feeling of isolation intensifies and things get critical.

I'd like to say that I adore spring and I always have.  I love the verve and the new vigor!  This depressive is thrilled as hell to see pink blossoms on the cherry tree out back, and garish forsythia waving on every street corner!  I'm glad of the warmer (but not too warm) weather, and the urge for renewal.

And this is the first spring in many, many springs that my biological clock hasn't been ringing off the hook!  This spring I feel pretty comfortable in my decision that babies may just be a never in my life.  I'm enjoying the nieces and babies of friends very much.  I am excited for two more to join the ranks in the next couple of months.  People are announcing, and growing round, and planning nurseries and picking out names I'll doubtlessly disapprove of, and for once in my life I've realized that hey--I've been wanting children for ALL THE WRONG REASONS. 

I've been wanting to fill a void.  I've had all the most selfish, silly, inane, unbelievablyidiotic ideas about children and life and parenting, and thank god I didn't get myself knocked up younger. 

I will be perfectly content to die childless--so long as that's what Aaron and I finally resolve.

For now we're in a 'let's not think about it for now, and we'll revisit the topic in a few years...maybe...if we can see over the mountain of debt..." situation.

So, while I feel for my sisters out there who long for procreation at this fertile time of year, I have to sigh (with so much genuine relief I can't even tell you!), and relax, and enjoy the spring for what it is, and not for what it should be, or could, be, or would be if only...

Back to school tomorrow.  Bleck.

I AM ON MUTHAFUCKING VACATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tomorrow is another day

More than a week since my last post!  Scandal.

It is just so time consuming, being a grown up.

We're in april now.  We're in spring now.  We're in the home fucking stretch now. 

But also not so much.  I am looking down the barrell of, what, ten more years of teaching--at the least?

And I remembered something I vowed to myself in high school:  As god as my witness, I will never, ever, cross my heart and hope to die, ever become an English teacher.

Hah.  Life's fucking adorable, isn't it?  I also swore that by this age I'd have at least two and a half children.

I'm an English teacher with a fish that won't die and a couple of cat's we've potty trained.

And I'm most definitely in therapy.

On mood stabilizers and antidepressants.

Not because of the cats...I don't think...

Anyway.  On the path to something I never wanted.

But maybe I do want it now?  I can't tell.

But if I have to lie, cheat, beg, borrow or steal, as god is my witness, I'll never stop trying to figure it the fuck out.