Somewhere in Between
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Monday, April 4, 2005
I haven't felt like writing lately. I find the times that I don't feel like writing, are the times I should the most.
I have been in my airy, distant, poetically numb mood lately. Doctors and mental health experts call this depression.
Fuck depression. It is some made up word for feeling sorry for yourself, for your crumby life, and for all the things you fucked up and can not change. This is not what I feel. I love myself, and most anything I do. I go about things in a different way than most people, I dive head first into things, blindfolded, and unsure if there is any water for me to crash into. To some, this makes me their hero, their friend.
To some,
this makes me sad,
a sad little girl
lost, and unable to feel.
I don't buy it. I am strong, I am strange, and I am willing to live one day to the next and hit pause when I feel like I have to sit still.
Though I have to admit, I am waiting for the day when I dive headfirst,
nothing catches me but air,
and everything is alright.
But aren't we all?
Saturday, February 19, 2005
I can’t commit to an idea for very long.
Everyone who has met me would be able to say that I am a very hard worker, creative, and smart, but once I am bored of something, or another project grabs my interest, the former job, school, major, craft, or idea falls right out of my head.
I never had a job for more than six consecutive months, though I have had 13 jobs to date. I never had a relationship last longer than four months, though I have had four titled boyfriends. I have declared four majors in two years (and seriously thought about three other possible majors) though I have yet to earn a degree. I have officially changed my address seven times in 3 years.
What is wrong with me?
I do not honestly feel that there IS anything wrong with me. I am very content with almost every decision I have made. I have always had a reason to choose something over settling into a permanent idea, whether it is an epiphany of my career goals, or just that I would enjoy living in a city. So why is it that I am made to feel so guilty over my indecisions, or a change, after all, isn’t it my perogative?
A woman who has decided her career path, followed through with it, and is climbing the ranks of said career, is thought to be a strong independent woman. But could a person who decided to move to a city on a whim, take a year off from school without knowing for what or where she will go back, and who works full-time at a deli, ever be considered strong as well? or is she just confused?
My whole life I have strived to be seen as a strong person, whenever anyone questions my intelligence or my abilities I always prove their questioning to be absurd. I succeed at anything I put my heart into, if only I could put my heart into anything long enough to actually succeed at anything.
Monday, February 7, 2005
If you were to ask me if I had ever been in love, my answer would probably be no.
This may seem sad to those of you in a loving relationship, but for me, this answer is better than the one a bit more truthful, the one I am afraid to say aloud. This answer is of course;
Yes, I think I have.
When I was fifteen, I, like most girls who grew up listening to the strings and beats of Rock and Roll, had a fascination with musicians, and even at that young age, I knew how to get what I wanted, which was a musician.
Of course when I met this jazz drummer of mine, he was 20, and I being 5 years younger, could only be socially acceptable as his friend. I grew up wanting more than friendship, but time and time again getting my heart crushed by his ego, fear, and skepticism of my maturity. Looking back on the three years I spent pining for the said drummer, I wish I could catch my heart, tell it that this man was not worth the pain it was about to go through. We all have these moments we wish we could go back to. I guess what makes it hard for me is, this man, this love, is the only thing I have regretted in my entire life.
Needless to say, as a 23 year old, his heart did not need me, but his body begged to differ. So we began what would become my first “Friends with benefits” relationship, which also began the destruction of our friendship.
Much agony,pain, and hurtful words later, we were not speaking anymore. I was devastated that a friendship and relationship I had put so much work into, one that I woke up everyday trying to make a little better for him, would fall apart so quickly, and without any way to resolve.
I was very naive.
During those three years I molded myself into what I thought would be perfect for this man. Looking back now, I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could have changed about myself, or him, in order to make it work, and honestly, I am so glad it didn’t.
As of two days ago this man who believed in marriage, family, woman taking care of their children, (and not playing in rock in roll bands), became a father.
Now there are many things I have accomplished, and maybe a few things I would have liked to have accomplished by now, but having a child with a Manic Depressive Construction worker that knows how to play the drums, IS NOT one of them.
I suppose my point is that although it is for the best that I was so brutally crushed, and the knowledge I gained about men, relationships, and myself from that situation is irreplaceable, sometimes
it still hurts.
Perhaps it is because the situation was never resolved, and maybe, just maybe, it is okay to still hurt every once in a while, even if I don’t want him anymore.
And I think this is okay
or at least, it will be, someday.
Friday, February 4, 2005
People that have known me for a while know that I had very strict moral standards growing up. I was raised in Baptist church and taught that sex before marriage was a sin, homosexuality was something that needed to be fixed, and that there was only one way to get to God (through Jesus Christ). Those who know me now, know that all three of these faith based standards are currently non-existent in my life.
It is not as if I have no faith or spirituality, because I most certainly believe in a higher power, and I might even believe that there was a Jesus, as well as a Buddha, a Krishna, etc. etc. It is very hard for me to think that there is only one way to God. Couldn’t it be possible that we (having a natural tendency toward some form of spirituality) are all a little right when it comes to God? I asked myself this question about a year ago. At first it seemed as if I was losing my faith, I wasn’t sure who I was or what I believed in.
In church I was taught that we are all tempted at some point in our lives, and some people stray from the “righteous path”, as it is so pretentiously put in many Christian circles. Maybe following the Bible or the Torah seems right to one man, but how can we, as Christians, Jews, Hindu's etc., say that following what feels right in someone’s heart is wrong because it is not what we personally believe? What if this is my right path?
I do admit I go through bouts of depression concerning my “loss” of faith. I am convinced that this is Christian guilt, and I am not entirely sure how to shake it. I know that it is making it harder for me to explore my true feelings about God and faith, and so I have decided not to think on these things too often, so as to allow the answers come to me in their own time.
Of course, living in a Judeo-Christian society, reminders of my life as a “Christian”, are all around. I am not one of those people who are bitter about the church or my upbringing. The church that I went to every Sunday was my second (and sometimes even my first), home. The people there cared about me and my family life, and I loved them for it. My pastor is a great man, who did not (and probably still does not)look down on anyone for asking questions. I was a bridesmaid at his sons wedding, and I had a true, honest and loving relationship with many people there.
I don’t think that Christianity is wrong, I don’t think that any Religion is wrong. I just don’t think that any Religion is right either. I know that if anyone from my church were to read this, or ask me about my faith now, they would pray that God would give me some guidance and direct me to the right path, and I have no problem with prayer, my only question is; what if he already has?
Tuesday, February 1, 2005
Aging is such a frightening thing to me, as is death. Now this fear is not uncommon by any means, but for me, being afraid of anything is something I dislike very much. Those who know me closely know that I grew up with a fear (or more accurately, phobia) of two things; needles and escalators going down. I know that I am not going to have a heart attack if the doctor doesn’t tap the needle, and that I am most probably not going to get my shoelace caught in the escalator and tumble towards certain death, but what makes a phobia a phobia (for all of you who have not taken Psych 101) is that it is IRRATIONAL.
Now I am not afraid of wrinkles, or the afterlife, I am more afraid of things such as losing my memory or dying painfully while my family watches. I do not believe this to be a phobia considering the statistics on Alzheimer’s and cancer.
My first job (aside from occasionally babysitting for a neighbor or family member) was in a nursing home. I was a 13 year old in charge of lifting morale
, encouraging positive attitudes, and the ever so important job of bingo caller. The place that I worked at was not just a nursing home, but also a rehabilitation center. While you think that it would be better to work at a place where people could be seen getting better after their hip replacements, or that the residents would have more hope because their friends learned how to function after their strokes, and this may have been true for some of the patients, but what loomed over most of the patients doors kept them tired, weak, and hopeless. You see, each door had a sign over it that read “Long term” or “Short Term”, and I can assure you that there were not many people leaving through those exits for good, unless it was with a sheet over their head. I don’t mean to sound morbid, I am just simply trying to get to the root of my reality, that is; Death is certain, and the longer you hold out, the more lonely and painful it will be.
Looking back on that last sentence, I must seem like the biggest, most depressing cynic known to man., but it is true. No one wants to be the great grandmother who has to pee through a tube, or the uncle who passes gas at the most inopportune time because he can not control himself. So the question I am struggling with right now is, why do we try so hard to stay alive?
Now I am not going to get all Kevorkian on you, I am just simple trying to figure out if getting old is such a large fear amongst the general population (and it is), then why do we continuously spend money and time on drugs, treatments, and various other things that simply numb the inevitable pain? Maybe it’s just me, but I think that if we were to create a giant amusement park filled with carousel rides, cotton candy, and roads made out of trampolines, and send our elderly there instead of expensive nursing facilities or filling them up with drugs; death would no longer be feared, but embraced. Hell you could sign me up now.
My point is, we so often waste our (or the older adults in our lives) final days in a numb, depressing state, when we could be, dare I say it…living.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
This summer I worked as a Life Model. What this title means to non-artist types is that I sometimes got undressed so that art students could paint or draw me. To artists I was simply another form or structure to try and recreate on canvas (whether I was nude, or fully clothed, was not of concern to them). I wanted to start off writing on this subject because during my five months as a model I encountered many unique personalities, along with realizing many things about my own self (as one often does if she were to sit still, and in silence for 6- 8 hours each day).
I remember my first class very vividly. It was a fairly hot summer day, and I was worried about many things.
"Was I going to sweat?"
"Would I be able to hold still for an entire class?"
" Was I a good body type for this work?"
"Would I be comfortable being naked in front of perfect strangers?"
I soon found out that this modeling gig was a lot easier than I had anticipated; in fact, I turned out to be a damn good model. The hardest part was the initial de-robing, as I was not sure what the reaction of the class would be to seeing this 20 year old stranger naked for the first time. My worry was met with a simple response from the artists; they did not care. They had seen naked bodies before, and they were not there to criticize mine.
The first class was a summer class for certificate students, which meant most of the people were not college aged kids. I remember two of the students very well, a man in his late 40’s who became more distraught with each line he put on paper, and always paced back and forth between myself and his easel. The man would get within inches of my body and I never once felt he was looking at me in a sexual way. He was so frustrated with the shape of my thigh, that he had no time to think of whether he was attracted to it. The other student was a woman in her 50’s. She kept to herself most of the time, and always carried around a sketch pad. I overheard her talking about how she loved to go to coffee houses and draw acoustic musicians, because they were so lively, but they sat still enough for her to capture their likeliness. She said she felt their music better by drawing them. I remember after the class was finished, I liked her portrait the best.
Day after day I walked into the Academy and people would stare intently at my leg or my arm for hours, as long as I stayed inside my head, focused on myself, I was fine.
After the class, compliments of my stillness, or my body, would almost always follow. This job allowed me to love myself in a way I never had. As I saw pieces of beautiful artwork being displayed, and pieces of myself in the artwork, I realized just how intimate art could be.
Art is sex, desire, shame, innocence, power, and beauty. One pose created so many different responses, and they were all more emotional than I could have ever imagined.
I did not talk a lot in the classroom because I was afraid that if the students knew too much about me it would affect the way they painted me. I liked seeing myself as the vixen or the lost girl on canvas, I was putting on a new face,(actually, many new faces) each time I took off my clothes, and it was exhilarating.
There are so many things I need to write on concerning the events of 2004. I am at a very happy yet confusing time in my life, and I am not afraid to write down exactly what I am feeling anymore. My life is filled with insane ramblings, strange encounters, nakedness, sex, sometimes drugs, art, unique people, desires, and even some days of depression.
I am creating this journal to put all of the things that go on inside of my head down onto something permanent. If you are uncomfortable reading about some of the above things, I suggest you resist the temptation of reading this further. I will be making some of my posts private, as to not hurt certain people, but mainly I am just being honest with myself here on out. I want to get in the habit of writing daily, and this is the fashion I decided to do it in. I will be writing as if I were a columnist on my own life. For those of you who wish to read, enjoy, but do not try to comment or get me to add you as a friend, as I am writing for myself.
From here on out, it is all about me.
Current mood:  content
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